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However keep the lively taste you hold |
Of God, love him now, but fear him more, |
And in your afternoons think what you told |
And promis'd him at morning prayer before. |
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Let falshood like a discord anger you, |
Else be not froward. But why do I touch |
Things, of which none is in your practice new, |
And Fables and fruit-trenchers teach as much. |
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But thus I make you keep your promise Sir, |
Riding I had you, though you still staid there, |
And in these thoughts, although you never stir, |
Yon* came with me to Micham, and are here. |
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To Mr. Rowland Woodward. |
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Like one who in her third widowhood doth profess |
Her self a Nun, tyed to retiredness, |
So'affects my Muse, now, a chast fallowness. |
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Since she to few, yet to too many'hath shown, |
How Love-songweeds, and Satyrique thorns are grown |
Where seeds of better Arts, were early sown? |
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Though to use, and love Poetry, to me, |
Betroth'd to no'one Art, be no Adultery; |
Omissions of good, ill, as ill deeds be. |
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For though to us it seem but light and thin, |
Yet in those faithful scales, where God throws in |
Mens works, vanity weighs as much as sin.
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[CW: If] |