|
| To M.r S. B. |
| O Thou, w.ch to search out the secret parts [218] |
| Of th'India, or rather Paradise |
| Of knowledge, hast with courage and Aduise |
| Lately launchd into the vast Sea of Arts |
| disdayne not, in thy constant trauelling |
| To doe as other voyagers, and make |
| Some Turnes into lesse Creekes, and wisely take |
| ffresh water at the Heliconian Spring |
| I sing not Syren-like to tempt, for I |
| Am harsh, nor as those Schismatiques with you |
| W.ch drawe all witts of good hope to theyr crue |
| But seene in yor bright sparks of Poetry |
| I, though I brought no fewell, had desire |
| With these articulate blasts to blow the fire |
|
| To M.r T. L. |
| Of that short rolle of frinds writt in my heart |
| Which with thy name begins, since theyr depart, |
| Whether in th'English Prouinces they bee, |
| Or drinke of Po Sequan or Danuby |
| There's none that sometimes greets vs not, And yet |
| Yor Trent's Lethe, that past, vs you forget |
| You doe not dutyes of Societies |
| If from th'embrace of a lov'd wife you rise |
| View yor fatt beasts, wretchd Barnes and labo.ed fields |
| Eate, play, ride take all Ioy w.ch All day yeelds |
| And then agayne to yor embracements goe |
| Some howers on vs yor frinds, and some bestow |
| Vpon yor muse, else, both wee shall repent |
| I, that my loue, shee her gifts on you ar spent
|
[CW: If as___] |