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Her vertues doe, as to their proper spheare,
Returne to dwell with you, of whom they were.
As perfect motions are all circular,
So they to you, their sea, whence lesse streames are.
Shee was all spices, you all metals; so
In you two we did both rich Indies know.
And as no fire, nor rust can spend or wast
One dramme of Gold, but what was first shall last,
Though it be forc'd in water, earth, salt, aire,
Expans'd in infinite, none will impaire;
So, to your selfe you may additions take,
But nothing can you lesse, or changed make.
Seeke not in seeking new, to seeme to doubt,
That you can match her, or not be without;
But let some faithfull booke in her roome bee,
Yet but of Iudith no such booke as shee.
Sapho to Philænis.
Where is that holy fire, which Verse is said
To have, is that inchanting force decay'd?
Verse that draws Natures works, frō Natures law,
Thee, her best worke, to her worke cannot draw.
Have my teares quench'd my old Poëtique fire;
Why quench'd they not as well, that of desire?
Thoughts, my mindes creatures, often are with thee,
But I, their maker, want their libertie.
Onely thine image, in my heart, doth sit,
But that is waxe, and fires environ it.
My fires have driven, thine have drawne it hence;
And I am rob'd of Picture, Heart, and Sense.
Dwels with me still mine irksome Memory.
Which, both to keepe, and lose, grieves equally.

[CW: That]