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Shine here to us, and thou art every where,
This bed thy center is, these walls thy sphear.
The Indifferent.
I can love both fair and brown,
Her whom aboundance melts, and her whom want betrayes,
Her who loves lovers best, and her who sports and playes,
Her whom the country form'd, and whom the Town,
Her who believes, and her who tries;
Her who still weeps with spungie eyes,
And her who is dry Cork, and never cries;
I can love her, and her, and you and you,
I can love any, so she be not true.
Will no other vice content you?
Will it not serve your turn to do, as did your mothers?
Or have you all old vices worn, and now would find out others?
Or doth a fear, that men are true, torment you?
Oh we are not, be not you so,
Let me; and do you, twenty know.
Rob me, but bind me not, and let me go,
Must, I, who came to travel thorow you,
Grow your fixt subject, because you are true?
Venus heard me sing this song,
And by Loves sweetest sweet, Variety, she swore,
She heard not this till now; it should be so no more.
She went, examin'd, and return'd ere long,
And said, alas, Some two or three
Poor Heretiques in love there be,
Which think to stablish dangerous constancy,

[CW: But]