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To M.r B. B. |
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Is not thy sacred hunger of science [216] |
Yet satisfyd? Is not thy braynes rich hiue |
ffulfilld with hony, w.ch thou dost deriue |
ffrom the Arts spirits and theyr quintessence? |
Then weane thy selfe at last and thee withdraw |
ffrom Cambridge, thy old Nurse, and as the rest |
Heere toughly chew and sturdily disgest |
Th'Im̄ense vast volumes of the Com̄on Law |
And beginn soone, least |my| greefe greeue |thee| too |
W.ch is that that w.ch I should haue begunn |
In my youths morning, now, late must bee donne |
And I, as giddy trauellers must doe |
W.ch stray, or sleepe all day, and hauing lost |
Light and strength, darke and tyr'd must then ride post |
If thou vnto thy Muse bee married |
Embrace her ever, ever multiply. |
Bee far from mee that strange Adultery |
To tempt thee, and procure her widdowhed |
My Muse (for I had one) because I am cold |
Diuorc'd her selfe, the cause beeing in mee, |
That I can take no new, in Bygamy. |
Not my will onely, but power doth withold |
Hence comes it that these rimes w.ch never had |
Mother, want matter, and they onely haue |
A little forme the w.ch theyr father gaue. |
They ar prophane, imperfect, oh too badd |
To bee wanted children of Poetry |
Except confirmd and Bishopped by thee.
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[CW: Thy frind__] |