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Nor can you more judge womens thoughts by tears,
Then by her shadow, what she wears.
O perverse sex, where none is true but she,
Who's therefore true because her truth kils me.
Valediction to his Book.
I'll tell thee now (dear Love) what thou shalt do
To anger destiny, as she doth us.
How I shall stay, though she eloigne me thus,
And how posterity shall know it too,
How thine may out endure
Sibyls glory, and obscure
Her who from Pindar could allure,
And her, through whose help Lucan is not lame,
And her, whose book (they say) Homer did find, and name,
Study our manuscripts, those Myriades
Of letters, which have past 'twixt thee and me,
Thence write our Annals, and in them will be.
To all whom loves subliming fire invades,
Rule and example found;
There, the faith of any ground
No Schismatique will dare to wound,
That sees, how Love this grace to us affords,
To make, to keep, to use, to be these his Records.
This book as long liv'd as the elements,
Or as the worlds forme, this all-graved Tomb.
In cypher writ, or new made Idiome;
We for Loves Clergie only'are instruments,
When this book is made thus,
Should again the ravenous
Vandals and Goths invade us.

[CW: Learning]