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Then by her shadow, what she weares. |
O perverse sexe, where none is true but shee, |
Who's therefore true, because her truth kills mee. |
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Valediction to his booke. |
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Ill tell thee now (deare Love) what thou shalt doe |
To anger destiny, as she doth us, |
How I shall stay, though she Esloygne me thus |
And how posterity shall know it too; |
How thine may out-endure |
Sybills glory, and obscure |
Her who from Pindar could allure, |
And her, through whose helpe Lucan is not lame, |
And her, whose booke (they say) Homer did finde, and name. |
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Study our manuscripts, those Myriades |
Of letters, which have past twixt thee and mee, |
Thence write our Annals, and in them will bee |
To all whom loves subliming fire invades, |
Rule and example found; |
There, the faith of any ground |
No schismatique will dare to wound, |
That sees, how Love this grace to us affords, |
To make, to keep, to use, to be these his Records.
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[CW: This] |