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Beleeve me sir, in my youths giddiest dayes, |
When to be like the Court was a playes praise, |
Playes were not so like Courts, as Courts like plaies. |
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Then let us at these mimique antiques jeast, |
Whose deepest projects, and egregious gests |
Are but dull Morals of a game at Chests. |
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But now 'tis incongruitie to smile, |
Therefore I end; and bid farewell a while. |
At Court: though from Court, were the better stile. |
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To the Countesse of Bedford. |
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MADAM, Reason is our Soules left hand, Faith her right, |
By these we reach divinitie, that's you; |
Their loves who have the blessing of your light, |
Grew from their reason, mine from faire faith grew. |
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But as, although a squint left-handednesse |
Be'ungracious, yet we cannot want that hand: |
So would I, (not to encrease, but to expresse |
My faith) as I beleeve, so understand. |
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Therefore I study you first in your Saints, |
Those friends whom your election glorifies; |
Then in your deeds, accesses and restraints, |
And what you reade, and what your selfe devise.
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[CW: But] |