|
| This Sunne will love so dearly |
| Her rest, that long, long we shall want her sight. |
| Wonders are wrought, for she which had no name, |
| To night puts on perfection, and a womans name. |
|
| SATYRES. |
| Satyre I. |
|
| Away thou changeling motley humorist, |
| Leave me, and in this standing woodden chest, |
| Consorted with these few bookes, let me lye |
| In prison, and here be coffin'd, when I die. |
| Here are Gods conduits; grave Divines, and here |
| Natures secretary, the Philsopher. |
| And wily Statesmen, which teach how to tie |
| The sinewes of a Cities mystique body; |
| Here gathering Chroniclers, and by them stand |
| Giddie fantastique Poëts of each land. |
| Shall I leave all this constant company, |
| And follow headlong wilde uncertaine thee? |
| First, sweare by thy best love, here, in earnest |
| (If thou which lov'st all, canst love any best)
|
[CW: Thou] |