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Beleeve mee Sir, in my youths giddiest dayes, |
When to be like the Court, was a playes praise, |
Playes were not so like Courts, as Courts'are like playes. |
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Then let us at these mimicke antiques jeast, |
Whose deepest projects, and egregious gests |
Are but dull Moralls of a game at Chests. |
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But now 'tis incongruity to smile, |
Therefore I end; and bid farewell a while, |
At Court, though from Court, were the better stile. |
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To the Countesse of Bedford. |
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Madame, Reason is our Soules left hand, Faith her right, |
By these wee reach divinity, that's you; |
Their loves, who have the blessings of your light, |
Grew from their reason, mine from faire faith grew. |
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But as, although a squint lefthandednesse |
Be'ungracious, yet we cannot want that hand, |
So would I, not to encrease, but to expresse |
My faith, as I beleeve, so understand.
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[CW: Therefore] |