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To Mr R. W.|
Kindly I envy thy Songs perfection [f. 31]
Built of all th'elements as or bodyes are:
That litle of earth that'is in it, is a faire
Delicious garden where all Sweetes are sowne.
In it is cherishing fyer wch dryes in mee
Griefe wch did drowne me: & halfe quench'd by it
Are Satirique fyres wch vrg'd me to hate writt
In skorne of all: for now I admyre thee.
And as Ayre doth fullfill the hollownes
Of rotten walls; so it myne emptines.
Wher lost & movd it did begett this sound
Wch as a lame Eccho of thyne doth rebound.
Oh I was dead: but since thy song new life did give
I recreated even by thy Creature live.
To M. S. B.|
O thou wch to search out the secret parts
Of th'India, or rather Paradise
Of knowledg, hast wt courage & advise
Lately launchd into ye vast Sea of Arts;
Disdaigne not in thy constant trauailing
To do as other Voyagers, and make
Some turnes into lesse creekes, and wisely take
Fresh water at th'Heliconian Spring.
I sing not Syren-like to tempt, for I
Am harsh, nor as those Scismatiques wt you
Wch draw all witts of good hope to ther crew:
But seene in you bright sparks of poetry
I though I brought no fuell had desyre
Wt these articulate blasts to blow ye fyre.