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To M. T. W.
Hast thee harsh verse as fast as thy lame measure
Will give thee leave, to him; My pain, & pleasure
I have given thee, and yet thou art too weake,
Feete and a reasoning soule and tongue to speake.
Tell him, all questions, which men have defended
Both of the place and paines of hell, are ended;
And 'tis decreed our hell is but privation
Of him, at least in this earths habitation:
And 'tis where I am, where in every street
Infections follow, overtake, and meete:
Live I or die, by you my love is sent,
And you'are my pawnes, or else my Testament.
To M. T. W.
Pregnant again with th'old twins Hope, and Feare,
Oft have I askt for thee, both how and where
Thou wert, and what my hopes of letters were;
As in our streets sly beggers narrowly
Watch motions of the givers hand or eye,
And evermore conceive some hope thereby.

[CW: And]