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Inlaid thee, neither to be seene, nor see, |
As mine: who have with amorous delicacies |
Refin'd thee'into a blis-full paradise. |
Thy graces and good words my creatures bee, |
I planted knowledge and lifes tree in thee, |
Which Oh, shall strangers taste? Must I alas |
Frame and enamell Plate, and drinke in glasse? |
Chafe waxe for others seales? breake a colts force |
And leave him then, beeing made a ready horse? |
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THE STORME. |
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To Mr Christopher Brooke. |
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Thou which art I, ('tis nothing to be soe) |
Thou which art still thy selfe, by these shalt know |
Part of our passage; And, a hand, or eye |
By Hilliard drawne, is worth an history, |
By a worse painter made; and (without pride) |
When by thy judgment they are dignifi'd, |
My lines are such. 'Tis the preheminence |
Of friendship onely to'impute excellence. |
England to whom we'owe, what we be, and have, |
Sad that her sonnes did seeke a forraine grave |
(For, Fates, or Fortunes drifts none can Southsay,
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[CW: Honour] |