|
Hence comes it yt these rimes wch never had [f. 32] |
Mother, want matter; and they only haue |
A litle forme the wch ther father gaue; |
They are prophane, imperfect, Oh too bad |
To be counted Children of Poetree |
Except confirmd & bishopped by thee. |
|
To M. I. L.| |
Blest are your North parts, for all this long time |
My Sun'is wt you: cold & darke is or clime. |
Heauens Sun wch stayd so long frō vs this yeare |
Stayed in your North (I thinke) for she was there. |
And hether by kind Nature drawne frō thence |
Here rages, burnes, & threatens pestilence. |
Yet I as long as she frō hence doth stay |
Thinke this no South, no Som̄er, nor no day. |
wt thee my kind & vnkind hart is run |
There Sacrifice it to that bewteous Sun. |
And since thou art in Paradise & needst craue |
No ioyes addition, helpe thy frind to saue. |
So may thy pastures wth ther flowry feasts |
As sodainly as lard fatt thy leane beasts. |
So may thy woods oft polld, yet ever weare |
A greene and when thou wilt a golden haire. |
So may all thy Sheepe bring forth twins and so |
In chace & race may thy horse all out go. |
So may thy love & courage nere be cold: |
Thy Sonne nere Ward; thy fair Wife nere seeme old. |
But may'st thou wish great things & them attaine, |
As thou telst her & none but her my paine. |