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To the Countesse of Bedford. |
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MADAM, You have refin'd me, and to worthiest things |
Vertue, Art, Beautie, Fortune; now I see |
Rarenesse, or use, not nature value brings; |
And such, as they are circumstanc'd, they bee. |
Two ills can nere perplex us, sin t'excuse; |
But of two good things we may leave and chuse. |
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Therefore at Court, which is not vertues clime, |
Where a transcendent height, (as, lownesse mee) |
Makes her not be, or not show: all my rime |
Your vertues challenge, which there rarest bee; |
For, as dark texts need notes: there some must be |
To usher vertue, and say, This is she. |
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So in the countrey'is beautie. To this place |
You are the season, (Madam) you the day, |
'Tis but a grave of spices, till your face |
Exhale them, and a thicke close bud display. |
Widow'd and reclus'd else, her sweets she'enshrines |
As China, when the Sunne at Brasill dines. |
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Out from your chariot, morning breaks at night, |
And falsifies both computations so; |
Since a new world doth rise here from your light, |
We your new creatures, by new recknings goe.
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[CW: This] |