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Satyra .3a.
Kinde Pittie choakes my spleene: Brave skorne forbides [f. 12]
Theis Teares to issue, wch swell my Eie-lidds.
I must not laughe, nor weepe; Sinne, and bee wise
Maie rayling then cure these worne Maladies.
Is not our Mistris faire Religion
As worthie of all our Soules deuotion
As vertue was to the first blind Age?
Are not Heavens ioyes as valiant to asswage
Lustes, as Earthes honours were to them? Alas!
As wee doe them in Meanes shall they surpas
Vs in the End? And shall thy fathers Spiritt
Meete blind Philosophers in Heauen, whose Meritt
Of strict life may bee imputed faith, and heere
Thee, whome hee taught waies easie, and neare
To followe damn'd? Oh, if thou darest feare this,
This feare great Courage, and highe Valour is:
Darest thou aid mutinous Dutche? Darest thou laye
Thee in Shippes, woodden Sepulchers, a Pray
To leaders rage, to stormes, to shott, to dearth?
Dar'st thou dive Seas, and dangers of the Earth?
Hadst thou couragious fire to thawe the Ice
Of frozen Northes discoueries, and thrice
Colder than Salamanders, like devyne
Children in the Oven, fires of Spaine, and the line
Whose Countries, limbeckes to our bodies bee;
Can'st thou for Gaine beare? And must everie Hee

[CW: wch]