|
| To M. T. W. |
|
| Hast thee harsh verse as fast as thy lame measure |
| Will give thee leave, to him; My pain, & pleasure |
| I have given thee, and yet thou art too weake, |
| Feet and a reasoning soule, and tongue to speake. |
| Tell him, all questions, which men have defended |
| Both of the place and paines of hell, are ended; |
| And 'tis decreed, our hell is but privation |
| Of him, at least in this earths habitation: |
| And 'tis where I am, where in every street |
| Infections follow, overtake, and meet. |
| Live I or die, by you my love is sent, |
| You are my pawnes, or else my Testament. |
|
| To M. T. W. |
|
| Pregnant againe with th'old twins Hope, and Fear, |
| Oft have I askt for thee, both how and where |
| Thou wert, and what my hopes of letters were. |
|
| As in our streets slie beggers narrowly |
| Watch motions of the givers hand or eye, |
| And evermore conceive some hope thereby.
|
[CW: And] |