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HG ["Who makes the past, A patterne for next yeare,"]


The Noble Soule by age growes lustier
Her appetite and her digestion mend;
Wee mvst not sterue, nor hope to pamper her
With womens Milke, and pap vnto her end

Prouide yow Manlier dyett; yow haue seene
All Libraries; which are Schooles, camps and courts;
But aske your Garniers, if yow haue nott ben
In harvests, too indulgent to your sports

Would yow redeeme itt? Then your selfe transplant
A while from hence: Perchaunce outlandish ground
Beares nott more Witt then ours, but yett more scant
Are those diuertions there, which here abound

To bee a stranger hath that benefitt;
Wee can beginninges, but not habitts choake
Go; whether? Hence; you gett, if you forgett
New faults till they proscribe in vs are smoake

Our Soule, whose cvntrye is Heaven, and God her father
Into this World, Corruptions sinck is sent;
Yett so mvch in her travaile, shee doth gather
That she retournes home wiser then shee went.

Itt paies yow well, if itt teach yow to spare
And make yow ashamd, to make your Hawkes praise yours
Which when her selfe shee lessens in the Aire
Yow then first saie, that high enough shee tours.
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