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LETTERS |
TO SEVERALL |
Personages. |
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THE STORME. |
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To Mr Christopher Brooke, from the Island voy-
age with the Earle of Essex. |
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Thou which art I, ('tis nothing to be so) |
Thou which art still thy selfe, by this shalt know |
Part of our passage; And, a hand, or eye |
By Hilliard drawne, is worth a Historie, |
By a worse painter made; and (without pride) |
When by thy judgement they are dignifi'd, |
My Lines are such. 'Tis the preheminence |
Of friendship onely to'impute excellence. |
England, to whom we'owe, what we be, and have, |
Sad that her sonnes did seeke a forraine grave |
(For, Fates, or Fortunes drifts none can southsay, |
Honour and misery have one face one* way. |
From out her pregnant intrailes sigh'd a winde |
Which at th'ayres middle marble roome did finde |
Such stronge resistance, that it selfe it threw |
Downward againe; and so when it did view
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[CW: How] |