|
| And now thy Almes is given, thy letter'is read, |
| The body risen againe, the which was dead, |
| And thy poore starveling bountifully fed. |
|
| After this banquet my Soule doth say grace, |
| And praise thee for'it, and zealously imbrace |
| Thy love, though I thinke thy love in this case |
| To be as gluttons, which say 'midst their meat, |
| They love that best of which they most do eat. |
|
| * |
| 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; |
|
| Yet as a firme house, though the Carpenter |
| Perish, doth stand: as an Embassadour |
| Lyes safe, how e'r his king be in danger: |
|
| So, though I languish, prest with Malancholy, |
| My verse, the strict Map of my misery, |
| Shall live to see that, for whose want I dye. |
|
| Therefore I envie them, and doe repent, |
| That from unhappy mee, 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 mee.
|
[CW: To] |