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But that I may not this disgrace
Indure, nor leave this garden, Love let me
Some senslesse peece of this place be;
Make me a mandrake, so I may grow here,
Or a stone fountaine weeping out the yeare.
Hither with Christall vyals, lovers come,
And take my teares, which are loves wine,
And try your Mistresse Teares at home,
For all are false, that taste not just like mine;
Alas, hearts doe not in eyes shine,
Nor can you more judge womēs thoughts by teares,
Then by her shadow, what she weares.
O perverse sexe, where none is true but she,
Who's therefore true, because her truth kils me.
Valediction to his Booke.
I'll tell thee now (deare Love) what thou shalt doe
To anger destiny, as she doth us,
How I shall stay, though she esloigne me thus,
And how posterity shall know it too;
How thine may out-endure
Sybils glory, and obscure
Her who from Pindar could allure,
And her, through whose helpe Lucan is not lame,
And her, whose booke (they say) Homer did find, & name.
Study our manuscripts, those Myriades
Of letters, which have past 'twixt thee and me,

[CW: Thence]