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This Sunne will love so dearly |
Her rest, that long, long we shall want her sight. |
Wonders are wrought, for she which had no name, |
To night puts on perfection, and a womans name. |
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SATYRES. |
Satyre I. |
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Away thou changeling motley humorist, |
Leave me, and in this standing woodden chest, |
Consorted with these few bookes, let me lye |
In prison, and here be coffin'd, when I die. |
Here are Gods conduits; grave Divines, and here |
Natures secretary, the Philsopher. |
And wily Statesmen, which teach how to tie |
The sinewes of a Cities mystique body; |
Here gathering Chroniclers, and by them stand |
Giddie fantastique Poëts of each land. |
Shall I leave all this constant company, |
And follow headlong wilde uncertaine thee? |
First, sweare by thy best love, here, in earnest |
(If thou which lov'st all, canst love any best)
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[CW: Thou] |