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Her vertues doe, as to their proper spheare, |
Returne to dwell with you, of whom they were. |
As perfect motions are all circular, |
So they to you, their sea, whence lesse streames are. |
Shee was all spices, you all metals; so |
In you two we did both rich Indies know. |
And as no fire, nor rust can spend or wast |
One dramme of Gold, but what was first shall last, |
Though it be forc'd in water, earth, salt, aire, |
Expans'd in infinite, none will impaire; |
So, to your selfe you may additions take, |
But nothing can you lesse, or changed make. |
Seeke not in seeking new, to seeme to doubt, |
That you can match her, or not be without; |
But let some faithfull booke in her roome bee, |
Yet but of Iudith no such booke as shee. |
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Sapho to Philænis. |
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Where is that holy fire, which Verse is said |
To have, is that inchanting force decay'd? |
Verse that draws Natures works, frō Natures law, |
Thee, her best worke, to her worke cannot draw. |
Have my teares quench'd my old Poëtique fire; |
Why quench'd they not as well, that of desire? |
Thoughts, my mindes creatures, often are with thee, |
But I, their maker, want their libertie. |
Onely thine image, in my heart, doth sit, |
But that is waxe, and fires environ it. |
My fires have driven, thine have drawne it hence; |
And I am rob'd of Picture, Heart, and Sense. |
Dwels with me still mine irksome Memory. |
Which, both to keepe, and lose, grieves equally.
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[CW: That] |