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To the Countesse of Huntington. |
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That unripe side of earth, that heavy clime |
That gives us man up now, like Adams time |
Before he ate; mans shape, that would yet bee |
(Knew they not it, and fear'd beasts companie) |
So naked at this day, as though man there |
From Paradise so great a distance were, |
As yet the newes could not arrived bee |
Of Adams tasting the forbidden tree; |
Depriv'd of that free state which they were in, |
And wanting the reward, yet beare the sinne. |
But, as from extreme hights who downward looks, |
Sees men at childrens shapes, Rivers at brookes, |
And loseth younger formes; so, to your eye, |
These (Madame) that without your distance lie, |
Must either mist, or nothing seeme to be, |
Who are at home but wits mere Atomi. |
But, I who can behold them move, and stay, |
Have found my selfe to you, just their midway; |
And now must pitty them; for, as they doe |
Seeme sick to me, just so must I to you, |
Yet neither will I vexe your eyes to see |
A sighing Ode, nor crosse-arm'd Elegie. |
I come not to call pitty from your heart, |
Like some white-liver'd dotard that would part |
Else from his slipperie soule with a faint groane, |
And faithfully, (without you smil'd) were gone.
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[CW: I can-] |