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An odd* letter.
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.|
To Sr Henrie Wootton.|
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.

[CW: But]