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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. |
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Sapho to Philænis. |
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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?
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[CW: Thou] |