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There's none that sometimes greets us not, and yet |
Your Trent is Lethe',that past, us you forget. |
You do not duties of Societies, |
If from th'embrace of a lov'd wife you rise, |
View your fat beasts, stretch'd Barnes, and labour'd fields, |
Eat, play, ride, take all joyes which all day yields, |
And then again to your imbracements go: |
Some hours on us your friends, and some bestow |
Upon your Muse, else both we shall repent, |
I that my love, she that her gifts on you are spent. |
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To M. I. P. |
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Blest are your North parts, for all this long time |
My Sun is with you, cold and dark is our Clime, |
Heavens Sun, which staid so long from us this year, |
Staid in your North (I think) for she was there, |
And hither by kind Nature drawn from thence, |
Here rages, chafes and threatens pestilence; |
Yet I, as long as she from hence doth stay, |
Think this no South, no Sommer, nor no day, |
With thee my kind and unkind heart is run, |
There sacrifice it to that beauteous Sun: |
So may thy pastures with their flowery feasts, |
As suddenly as Lard, fat thy lean beasts; |
So may thy woods oft poll'd, yet ever wear |
A green, and (when she list) a golden hair; |
So may all thy sheep bring forth Twins; and so |
In chase and race may thy horse all out-go; |
So may thy love and courage ne'r be cold; |
Thy Son ne'r Ward; thy lov'd wife ne'r seem old;
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[CW: But] |