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For, knowledge kindles Calentures in some, |
And is to others jcy Opium. |
As brave as true, is that profession than |
Which you doe use to make; that you know man. |
This makes it credible, you have dwelt upon |
All worthy bookes; and now are such an one. |
Actions are authors, and of those in you |
Your friends finde every day a mart of new. |
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To the Countesse of Bedford. |
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T'have* written then, when you writ, seem'd to mee |
Worst of spirituall vices, Simony, |
And not t'have written then, seemes little lesse |
Then worst of civill vices, thanklessenesse. |
In this, my doubt I seem'd loath to confesse, |
In that, I seem'd to shunne beholdingnesse. |
But 'tis not soe, nothing, as I am, may, |
Pay all they have, and yet have all to pay. |
Such borrow in their payments, and owe more |
By having leave to write so, then before. |
Yet since rich mines in barren grounds are showne, |
May not I yeeld (not gold) but coale or stone? |
Temples were not demolish'd, though prophane: |
Here Peter Ioves, there Paul have Dian's Fane. |
So whether my hymnes you admit or chuse, |
In me you'have hallowed a Pagan Muse,
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[CW: And] |