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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 |
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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
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[CW: If as___] |