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To M.r B. B.
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.

[CW: Thy frind__]