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To M. C. B. |
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Thy friend, whom thy deserts to thee enchaine, |
Vrg'd by this unexcusable occasion, |
Thee and the Saint of his affection |
Leaving behinde, doth of both wants complaine; |
And let the love I beare to both sustaine |
No blott nor maime by this division, |
Strong is this love which ties our hearts in one, |
And strong that love pursu'd with amorous paine; |
But though besides thy selfe I leave behinde |
Heavens liberall, and the thrice faire Sunne, |
Going to where sterv'd winter aye doth wonne, |
Yet, loves hot fires which martyr my sad minde, |
Doe send forth scalding sighes, which have the Art |
To melt all Ice, but that which walls her heart. |
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To M. S. B. |
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O thou which to search out the secret parts |
Of the India, or rather Paradise |
Of knowledge, hast with courage and advice |
Lately launch'd into the vast Sea of Arts, |
Disdaine not in thy constant travelling |
To doe as other Voyagers, and make
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[CW: Some] |