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A Letter to the Lady Carey, & Mris Essex Riche, |
From Amyens. |
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MADAME, Here where by All All Saints invoked are, |
'Twere too much schisme to be singular, |
And 'gainst a practice generall to warre. |
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Yet turning to Saincts, should my'humilitie |
To other Sainct than you directed bee, |
That were to make my schisme, heresie. |
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Nor would I be a Convertite so cold, |
As not to tell it; If this be to bold, |
Pardons are in this market cheaply sold. |
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Where, because Faith is in too low degree, |
I thought it some Apostleship in mee |
To speake things which by faith alone I see. |
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That is, of you, who are a firmament |
Of virtues, where no one is growne, or spent, |
They'are your materials, not your ornament. |
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Others whom we call vertuous, are not so |
In their whole substance, but, their vertues grow |
But in their humours, and at seasons show.
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[CW: For] |