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To M.r R. W. |
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If, as mine is, thy life a slumber bee, [219] |
Seeme, when thou readst these lines, to dreame on mee |
Never did Morpheus nor his Brother weare |
Shapes so like those shapes whome they would appeere |
As this my letter is like mee, for it |
Hath my name, words, hands, feete, hart mind and witt |
It is my deed of gift of mee to thee |
It is my will, thy*selfe the Legacy. |
So thy retyrings I loue, yea enuy |
(Bredd in thee by a wise melancholly) |
That I reioyce that vnto where thou art, |
Though I stay heere, I can thus send my hart, |
As kindly as any enamourd patient |
His picture to his absent Loue hath sent.| |
All newes, I thinke, sooner reach thee then mee |
Hauens ar Heauens, and shipps wingd Angels bee |
The w.ch both Gospell and sterne threatnings bring |
Guyanas haruest is nipd in the Spring |
I feare, And with vs, mee thinkes, fate deales so |
As with the Iewes Guide God did. Hee did showe |
Him the rich land, but barrd his entry in. |
Oh, Slownesse is our punishment and Sinne |
Perchance these Spanish businesses beeing donne |
(W.ch as the Earth betwixt the Moone and Sunne |
Eclipse the light w.ch Guyana would giue) |
Our discontinewed hopes wee shall retriue. |
But if (as all th' All must) hopes Smoke away |
Is not Almighty Vertue an India? |
If men bee worlds, there is in every one |
Somthing to answere in some proportion |
All the worlds riches. And in good men, this |
Vertue, our formes forme, and our Soules Soule is.
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[CW: Blest are] |