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To M. B. B. |
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Is not thy sacred hunger of science |
Yet satisfy'd? Is not thy braines rich hive |
Fulfil'd with hony which thou dost derive |
From the Arts spirits and their Quintessence? |
Then weane thy selfe at last, and thee withdraw |
From Cambridge thy old nurse, and, as the rest, |
Here toughly chew, and sturdily digest |
Th'immense vast volumes of our common law; |
And begin soone, lest my griefe grieve thee too, |
Which is, that that which I should have begun |
In my youthes morning, now late must be done; |
And I, as Giddy Travellers, must doe, |
Which stray or sleepe all day, and having lost |
Light and strength, darke and tir'd must then ride post. |
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If thou unto thy Muse be marryed, |
Embrace her ever, ever multiply, |
Be far from me that strange Adulterie |
To tempt thee and procure her widdowhood, |
My nurse, (for I had one,) because I'am cold, |
Divorc'd her selfe, the cause being in me, |
That I can take no new in Bigamye, |
Not my will only but power doth withhold. |
Hence comes it, that these Rymes which never had |
Mother, want matter, aud they only have
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[CW: A] |