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But thus I make you keepe your promise Sir, |
Riding I had you, though you still staid there, |
And in these thoughts, although you never stirre, |
You came with mee to Micham, and are here. |
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To Mr Rowland Woodward. |
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Like one who'in her third widdowhood doth professe, |
Her selfe a Nunne, tyed to retirednesse, |
So'affects my muse now, a chast fallownesse. |
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Since shee to few, yet to too many'hath showne |
How love-song weeds, and Satyrique thornes are growne |
Where seeds of better Arts, were early sown. |
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Though to use, and love Poëtrie, to mee, |
Betroth'd to no'one Art, be no'adulterie; |
Omissions of good, ill, as ill deeds bee. |
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For though to us it seeme,'and be light and thinne, |
Yet in those faithfull scales, where God throwes in |
Mens workes, vanity weighs as much as sinne. |
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If our Soules have stain'd their first white, yet wee |
May cloth them with faith, and deare honestie, |
Which God imputes, as native puritie,
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[CW: There] |