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In superscribing, this name flow |
Into thy fancy from the Pen, |
So, in forgetting* thou remembrest right, |
And unaware to me shalt write. |
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XI. |
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But glasse, and lines must be |
No meanes our firme substantiall love to keepe; |
Neare death inflicts this lethargie, |
And thus I murmure in my sleepe; |
Impute this idle talke,* to that I goe, |
For dying men talke often so. |
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Twicknam Garden. |
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Blasted with sighs, and surrounded with teares, |
Hither I come to seeke the spring, |
And at mine eyes, and at mine eares, |
Recieve such balme, as else cures every thing: |
But O, selfe-traitor, I doe* bring |
The spider love, wich transubstantiates all, |
And can convert Manna to gall, |
And that this place may thoroughly be thought |
True Paradise, I have the serpent brought. |
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'Twere wholsomer for me, that winter did |
Benight the glory of this place, |
And that a grave frost did forbid |
These trees to laugh, and mock me to my face;
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[CW: But] |