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To M. T. W. |
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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. |
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To M. T. W. |
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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. |
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As in our streets slie beggers narrowly |
Watch motions of the givers hand or eye, |
And evermore conceive some hope thereby.
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[CW: And] |