|
| To Mr. T. W.| |
| At once frō hence my lines & I depart [f. 29] |
| I to my soft still walks, words blotted: they to my hart |
| I to the Nource, they to the Child of art. |
| Yet as a firme house, though the Carpenter |
| Perish, doth stand: As an Ambassador |
| Lyes safe how ere his king be in danger |
| So though I languish prest wt Melancholy |
| My verse ye strict Map of my misery |
| line blotted: Shall live to see yt for whose want I dy. |
| Therfore I envy them and do repent |
| That frō vnhappy me, things happy are sent. |
| Yet as a picture or bare Sacrament |
| Accept these Lines, and if in them ther bee |
| line blotted: Meritt of Love, bestow yt Love on mee. |
|
| To Mr R: W.| |
| Zealously my Muse doth salute all thee. |
| Enquiring of that mistique trinitee |
| Whereof thou'and all to whom heauens do infuse |
| Like fyer, are made; thy body, mind, & Muse. |
| Dost thou recouer sicknes, or preuent? |
| Or is thy Mind trauaild wt discontent? |
| Or art thou parted frō the world & mee |
| In a good skorn of the worlds vanitee? |
| Or is thy devout Muse retyrd to sing |
| Vpon her tender Elegiaque string? |
| Or Minds part not, ioyne then thy Muse wt myne |
| for myne is barren thus deuorc'd frō thyne. |