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She's all States, and all Princes, I,
Nothing else is.
Princes doe but play us; compar'd to this,
All honour's mimique; All wealth alchimy;
Thou Sunne art halfe as happy'as wee,
In that the world's contracted thus.
Thine age askes ease, and since thy duties be
To warme the world, that's done in warming us.
Shine here to us, and thou art every where,
This bed thy center is, these wals, thy spheare.
The indifferent.
I can love both faire and browne,
Her whom abundance melts, and her whom want betrayes,
Her who loves lonenesse best, and her who masks & plaies,
Her whō the coūtry form'd, & whō the town,
Her who beleeves, and her who tries,
Her who still weeps with spungie eyes,
And her who is drie Corke, and never cries;
I can love her, and her, and you and you,
I can love any, so she bee not true.
Will no other vice content you?
Will it not serve your turne to doe, as did your mothers?
Or have you all old vices spent, and now would find out others?
Or doth a feare, that men are true, torment you?
Oh we are not, be not yo so,
Let me; and doe you, twenty know.
Rob mee, but binde me not, and let me goe.

[CW: Must]