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So thy retyrings I love, yea envie, |
Bred in thee by a wise melancholy, |
That I rejoyce, that unto where thou art, |
Though I stay here, I can thus send my heart, |
As kindly as any enamored Patient |
His Picture to his absent Love hath sent. |
All news I think sooner reach thee than me; |
Havens are Heavens, and Ships wing'd Angels be, |
The which both Gospel, and stern threatnings bring; |
Guianaes harvest is nipt in the spring, |
I fear; and with us (me thinks) Fate deales so |
As with the Jews guide God did; he did show |
Him the rich land, but barr'd his entry in: |
Our slowness is our punishment and sin; |
Perchance, these Spanish businesses being done; |
Which as the earth between the Moon and Sun |
Eclipse the light which Guiana would give, |
Our discontinued hopes we shall retrive: |
But if (as All th' All must) hopes smoak away, |
Is not Almighty Vertue an India? |
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If men be worlds, there is in every one |
Some thing to answer in some proportion |
All the worlds riches: and in good men, this |
Vertue, our forms form, and our souls soul is. |
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To M. I. L. |
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Of that short Roll of friends writ in my heart |
Which with thy name begins, since their depart |
Whether in the English Provinces they be, |
Or drink of Po, Sequan, or danubie,
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[CW: Theres] |