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To E. of D. with sixe holy Sonets. |
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See Sir, how as the Suns hot Masculine flame |
Begets strange creatures on Niles durty slime, |
In me, your fatherly yet lusty Ryme |
(For, these songs are their fruits) have wrought the same; |
But though the ingendring force from whence they came |
Be strong enough, and nature doth admit |
Seven to be borne at once, I send as yet |
But sixe; they say, the seventh hath still some maime; |
I choose your judgement which the same degree |
Doth with her sister, your invention, hold, |
As fire these drossie Rymes to purifie, |
Or as Elixar, to change them to gold; |
You are that Alchymist which alwayes had |
Wit, whose one sparke could make good things of bad. |
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To Sir H. W. at his going Ambassadour |
to Venice. |
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After those reverend papers, whose soule is |
Our good and great Kings lov'd hand and fear'd name |
By which to you he derives much of his, |
And (how he may) makes you almost the same,
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[CW: A] |