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Satyre III. |
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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
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[CW: Senti-] |