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Satyre III.
Kind pity cheeks my spleen; brave scorn forbids
Those tears to issue, which swell my eye-lids.
I must not laugh, nor weep sins, but be wise,
Can railing then cure these worn maladies?
Is not our Mistress fair Religion,
As worthy of all our Souls devotion,
As virtue was to the first blinded Age?
Are not heavens joyes as valiant to asswage
Lusts, as earths honour was to them? Alas,
As we do them in means, shall they surpass
Us in the end? and shall thy fathers spirit
Meet blind Philosophers in heaven, whose merit
Of strict life may be imputed faith, and hear
Thee, whom he taught so easie wayes and near
To follow, damn'd? Oh, if thou dar'st, fear this:
This fear great courage, and high valour is.
Dar'st thou ayd mutinous Dutch? and dar'st thou lay
Thee in ships wooden Sepulchres, a prey
To leaders rage, to storms, to shot, to dearth?
Dar'st thou dive seas, and dungeons of the earth?
Hast thou courageous fire to thaw the ice
Of frozen North discoveries, and thrice
Colder than Salamanders? like divine
Children in th'Oven, fires of Spain, and the line
Whose Countries limbecks to our bodies be,
Canst thou for gain bear? and must every he
Which cries not, Goddess, to thy Mistress, draw
Or eat thy poysonous words? courage of straw!
O desperate coward, wilt thou seem bold, and
To thy foes and his, (who made thee to stand

[CW: Senti-]