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To M. B. B.
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.
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

[CW: A]