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To M. S. B. |
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O thou which to search out the secret parts |
Of the India, or rather Paradise |
Of knowledge, hast with courage and advise |
Lately launch'd into the vast Sea of Arts, |
Disdaine not in thy constant travailing |
To doe as other Voyagers, and make |
Some turnes into lesse Creekes, and wisely take |
Fresh water at the Heliconian spring; |
I sing not, Siren like, to tempt; for I |
Am harsh, nor as those Scismatiques with you, |
Which draw all wits of good hope to their crew; |
But seing in you bright sparkes of Poetry, |
I, though I brought no* fuell, had desire |
With these Articulate blasts to blow the fire.
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[CW: To] |