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For your owne conscience, he gives innocence, |
But for your fame, a discreet warinesse, |
And though to scape, then to revenge offence |
Be better, he showes both, and to represse |
Ioy, when your state swells, sadnesse when 'tis lesse. |
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From need of teares he will defend your soule, |
Or make a rebaptizing of one teare; |
Hee cannot, (that's, he will not) dis-inroule |
Your name; and when with active joy we heare |
This private Ghospell, then 'tis our new yeare, |
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To the Countesse of Huntingdon. |
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Madame, Man to Gods image, Eve, to mans was made, |
Nor finde wee that God breath'd a soule in her, |
Canons will not Church functions you invade, |
Nor lawes to civill office you preferre. |
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Who vagrant transitory Comets sees, |
Wonders, because they'are rare; But a new starre |
Whose motion with the firmament agrees, |
Is miracle; for, there no new things are; |
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In woman so perchance milde innocence |
A seldome comet is, but active good
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[CW: A] |