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We can dye by it, if not live by love,
And if unfit for tomb or hearse
Our legend be, it will be fit for verse;
And if no peece of Chronicle we prove,
Wee'l build in sonets pretty roomes.
As well a well wrought urne becomes
The greatest ashes, as half-acre tombes,
And by those hymnes all shall approve
Us Canoniz'd for love:
And thus invoke us; you whom reverend love
Made one anothers hermitage;
You to whom love was peace, that now is rage,
Who did the whole worlds soul contract, and drove
Into the glasses of your eyes
So made such mirrours, and such spies,
That they did all to you epitomize,
Countries, Towns, Courts Beg from above
A patern of your love.
The Triple Fool.
I am two fooles, I know,
For loving and for saying so
In whining Poetry,
But where's the wiser man, That would not be I,
If she would not deny?
Then as th' earths inward narrow crooked lanes
Do purge sea waters fretful salt away,
I thought, if I could draw my paines,
Through Rhimes vexation, I should them allay.
Grief brought to number cannot be so fierce,
For, He tames it, that fetters it in verse.

[CW: But]