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An odd* letter. |
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At once from hence, my lines, and I depart, [f. 40] |
I to my soft still walkes, they to my hart. |
I to the Nurse, they to the Child of Art. |
Yet as a firme-House thoughe the Carpenter |
Perishe, doth* stand; As an Embassador |
Lyes safe, how ere his King bee in danger. |
Soe thoughe I languishe prest with Melancholie, |
My verse the strict Mappe of my Miserie. |
Shall liue to see, that, for whose want I die. |
Therefore I envie them, and doe repent, |
That from vnhappie Mee, thinges happie are sent. |
Yet as a Picture, or bare Sacrament |
Accept these lynes, and if in them there bee |
Meritt of loue, bestowe that loue on me.| |
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To Sr Henrie Wootton.| |
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Sr, more then Kisses, letters mingle Soules |
For thus Frends absent, speake; This Ease controules |
The tediousnes of my lyfe; But for these |
I could Ideat nothing, wch could please.
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[CW: But] |