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To M. M. H. |
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Mad paper stay, and grudge not here to burne |
With all those sonnes whom my braine did create, |
At lest lye hid with mee, till thou returne. |
To rags againe, which is thy native state. |
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What though thou have enough unworthinesse |
To come unto great place as others doe, |
That's much, emboldens, pulls, thrusts I confesse, |
But 'tis not all, thou should'st be wicked too. |
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And, that thou canst not learne, or not of mee; |
Yet thou wilt goe, Goe, since thou goest to her |
Who lacks but faults to be a Prince, for shee, |
Truth, whom they dare not pardon, dares preferre. |
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But when thou com'st to that perplexing eye |
Which equally claimes love and reverence. |
Thou wilt not long dispute it, thou wilt die; |
And, having little now, have then no sense. |
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Yet when her warme redeeming hand, which is |
A miracle; and made such to worke more, |
Doth touch thee (saples leafe) thou grow'st by this |
Her creature; glorify'd more then before.
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[CW: Then] |