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Manure thy selfe then, to thy selfe be'approv'd, |
And with vaine outward things be no more mov'd, |
But to know that I love thee'and would be lov'd. |
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To Sr Henry Wootton. |
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Here's no more newes, than vertue.'I may as well |
Tell you Calis, or Saint Michaels tales, as tell |
That vice doth here habitually dwell. |
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Yet, as to get stomachs, we walk up and downe, |
And toyle to sweeten rest: so, may God frowne, |
If, but to loath both, I haunt Court, or Towne. |
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For, here, no one is from th'extremitie |
Of vice, by any other reason free, |
But that the next to him, still, is worse than hee. |
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In this worlds warfare, they whom rugged Fate, |
(Gods Commissary,) doth so throughly hate, |
As in'the Courts Squadron to marshall their state: |
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If they stand arm'd with seely honesty, |
With wishes, prayers, and neat integritie, |
Like Idians 'gainst Spanish hosts they be. |
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Suspitious boldnesse to this place belongs, |
And to have as many eares as all have tongues; |
Tender to know, tough to acknowledge wrongs.
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[CW: Beleeve] |