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Heavens liberal, and Earths thrice fair Sun, |
Going to where sterv'd winter aye doth won, |
Yet, loves hot fires which martyr my sad mind, |
Do send forth scalding sighs, which have the Art |
To melt all Ice, but that which walls her heart. |
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To M. S. B. |
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O thou which to search out the secret parts |
Of the India, or rather Paradise |
Of knowledg, hast with courage and advice |
Lately launch'd into the vast Sea of Arts, |
Disdain not in thy constant travelling |
To do as other Voyagers, and make |
Some turns into less Creeks, and wisely take |
Fresh water at the Heliconian spring. |
I sing not, Siren like to tempt; for I |
Am harsh; nor as those Schismatiques with you, |
Which draw all wits of good hope to their crew; |
But seeing in you bright sparks of Poetry, |
I, though I brought no fuel, had desire |
With these Articulate blasts to blow the fire. |
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To M. B. B. |
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Is not thy sacred hunger of science |
Yet satisfy'd? is not thy braines rich hive |
Fulfill'd with hony which thou dost derive |
From the Arts spirits and their Quintessence? |
Then wean thy self at last, and thee withdraw |
From Cambridg thy old nurse, and, as the rest,
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[CW: Here] |