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In superscribing, this name flow
Into thy fancy from the Pen,
So, in forgetting* thou remembrest right,
And unaware to me shalt write.
But glasse, and lines must be
No meanes our firme substantiall love to keepe;
Neare death inflicts this lethargie,
And thus I murmure in my sleepe;
Impute this idle talke,* to that I goe,
For dying men talke often so.
Twicknam Garden.
Blasted with sighs, and surrounded with teares,
Hither I come to seeke the spring,
And at mine eyes, and at mine eares,
Recieve such balme, as else cures every thing:
But O, selfe-traitor, I doe* bring
The spider love, wich transubstantiates all,
And can convert Manna to gall,
And that this place may thoroughly be thought
True Paradise, I have the serpent brought.
'Twere wholsomer for me, that winter did
Benight the glory of this place,
And that a grave frost did forbid
These trees to laugh, and mock me to my face;

[CW: But]