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Though it be forc'd in water, earth, salt, air,
Expans'd in infinite, none will impair;
So, to your self you may additions take,
But nothing can you less, or changed make.
Seek not in seeking new, to seem to doubt;
That you can match her, or not be without;
But let some faithful book in her room be,
Yet but of Judith no such book as shee.
Sapho to Philænis.
Where is that holy fire, which Verse is said
To have? is that inchanting force decay'd?
Verse that draws Natures work, from Natures law,
Thee, her best work, to her work cannot draw.
Have my tears quench'd my old Poetique fire;
Why quench'd they not as well, that of desire?
Thoughts, my minds creatures, often are with thee,
But I, their maker, want their liberty;
Onely thine image, in my heart, doth sit,
But that is wax, and fires environ it.
My fires have driven, thine have drawn it hence;
And I am rob'd of Picture, Heart, and Sense.
Dwells with me still, mine irksome Memory:
Which, both to keep, and lose grieves equally.
That tells me how fair thou art: Thou art so fair,
As gods, when gods to thee I do compare,
Are grac'd thereby; And to make blinde men see,
What things gods are, I say they'are like to thee,
For, if we justly call each silly man
A little world, what shall we call thee than?

[CW: Thou]