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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.
To M. I. P.
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;

[CW: But]