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Incerto. |
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At once from hence my lines and I depart, |
I to my soft still walks, they to my Heart; |
I to the Nurse, they to the child of Art. |
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Yet as a firm house, though the Carpenter |
Perish, doth stand: as an Embassadour |
Lies safe, how e'r his King be in danger. |
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So, though I languish, prest with Melancholy; |
My verse, the strict Map of my misery, |
Shall live to see that, for whose want I dy. |
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Therefore I envy them, and do repent, |
That from unhappy me, things happy' are sent; |
Yet as a Picture, or bare Sacrament, |
Accept these lines, and if in them there be |
Merit of love, bestow that love on me. |
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To M. C. B. |
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Thy friend, whom thy deserts to thee enchain, |
Urg'd by this unexcusable occasion, |
Thee and the Saint of his affection |
Leaving behind, doth of both wants complain; |
And let the love I bear to both sustain |
No blot nor maim by this division, |
Strong is this love which ties our hearts in one, |
And strong that love pursued with amorous pain; |
But though besides thy self I leave behind
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[CW: Heavens] |