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To the Countesse of Bedford. |
Begun in France but never perfected. |
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Though I be dead, and buried, yet I have |
(Living in you,) Court enough in my grave, |
As oft as there I thinke my selfe to bee, |
So many resurrections waken mee. |
That thankfullnesse your favours have begot* |
In mee, embalmes mee; that I doe not rot; |
This season as 'tis Easter, as 'tis spring, |
Must both to growth and to confession bring |
My thoughts dispos'd unto your influence, so, |
These verses bud, so these confessions grow; |
First I confesse I have to others lent |
Your stock, and over prodigally spent |
Your treasure, for since I had never knowne |
Vertue or beautie, but as they are growne |
In you, I should not thinke or say they shine, |
(So as I have) in any other Mine; |
Next I confesse this my confession, |
For, 'tis some fault thus much to touch upon, |
Your praise to you, where half rights seeme too much, |
And make your minds sincere complexion blush. |
Next I confesse my'impenitence, for I |
Can scarce repent my first fault, since thereby |
Remote low Spirits, which shall ne'r read you, |
May in lesse lessons finde enough to doe, |
By studying copies, not Originals, |
Desunt cætera.
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[CW: To] |