|
| 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. |
|
|
| Valediction to his booke. |
|
| 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. |
|
| 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.
|
[CW: This] |