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To M. M. H.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.

[CW: Then]