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To tempt thee, and procure her widdowhood,
My nurse, (for I had one,) because I'm cold,
Divorc'd her selfe, the cause being in me,
That I can take no new in Bigamye,
Not my will onely, but power doth withhold,
Hence comes it, that these Rimes which never had
Mother, want matter, and they onely have
A little forme, the which their Father gave;
They are prophane, imperfect, oh, too bad
To be counted Children of Poëtry
Except confirm'd and Bishoped by thee.
To M. R. W.
If, as mine is, thy life a slumber be,
Seeme, when thou read'st these lines, to dreame of me,
Never did Morpheus nor his brother weare
Shapes so like those Shapes, whom they would appeare,
As this my letter is like me, for it
Hath my name, words, hand, feet, heart, minde and wit;
It is my deed of gift of me to thee,
It is my Will, my selfe the Legacie.
So thy retyrings I love, yea envie,
Bred in thee by a wise melancholy,
That I rejoyce, that unto where thou art,
Though I stay here, I can thus send my heart,
As kindly as any enamored Patient
His Picture to his absent Love hath sent.

[CW: All]