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LETTERS |
TO SEVERAL |
PERSONAGES. |
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THE STORM. |
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To Mr. Christopher Brook, from the Island voyage
with the Earl of Essex. |
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Thou which art I, ('tis nothing to be so) |
Thou which art still thy self, by this shalt know |
Part of our passage; And, a hand, or eye |
By Hilliard drawn, is worth a 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 only t'impute excellence. |
England, to whom we owe, what we be, and have, |
Sad that her sons did seek a forrain grave |
(For, Fates or Fortunes drifts none can gain-say, |
Honour and misery have one face, and way.) |
From out her pregnant intrails sigh'd a wind |
Which at th'ayres middle marble room did find |
Such strong resistance, that it self it threw |
Downward again; and so when it did view
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[CW: How,] |