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To Sr Henry Wootton.
Sir, more than kisses, letters mingle Soules,
For, thus friēds absent speak. This ease controules
The tediousnesse of my life: But for these
I could ideate nothing, which could please,
But I should wither in one day, and passe
To'a bottle of Hay, that am a lock of Grasse.
Life is a voyage, and in our lives wayes
Countries, Courts, Townes are Rocks, or Remoraes;
They breake or stop all ships, yet our state's such
That though then pitch they staine worse, we must touch.
If in the furnace of the raging line,
Or under th'adverse icy pole thou pine,
Thou know'st two temperate Regions girded in,
Dwell there: But oh, what refuge canst thou win
Parch'd in the Court, and in the countrey frozen?
Shall cities built of both extremes be chosen?
Can dung, or garlike be perfume? Or can
A Scorpion, or Torpedo cure a man?
Cities are worst of all three; of all three?
(O knotty riddle) each is worst equally.
Cities are Sepulchres; they who dwell there
Are carcases, as if none such there were.
And Courts are Theaters, where some men play
Princes, some slaves, all to one end, of one clay.
The Countrey is a desert, where the good,
Gain'd inhabits not, borne, is not understood.

[CW: There]