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And now thy Almes is given, thy letter'is read, |
The body risen againe, the which was dead, |
And thy poore starveling bountifully fed. |
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After this banquet my Soule doth say grace, |
And praise thee for'it, and zealously embrace |
Thy love, though I thinke thy love in this case |
To be as gluttons, which say'midst their meat, |
They love that best of which they most doe eat. |
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Incerto. |
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At once from hence my lines and I depart,* |
I to my soft still walkes, they to my Heart; |
I to the Nurse, they to the child of Art; |
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Yet as a firme house, though the Carpenter |
Perish, doth stand: as an Embassadour |
Lyes safe, how e'r his King be in danger: |
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So, though I languish, prest with Melancholy; |
My verse, the strict Map of my misery, |
Shall live to see that, for whose want I die. |
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Therefore I envy them, and doe repent, |
That from unhappy me, things happy'are sent; |
Yet as a Picture, or bare Sacrament, |
Accept these lines, and if in them there be |
Merit of love, bestow that love on me.
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[CW: To] |