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To the Countesse of Bedford. |
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Madame Honour is so sublime perfection [191] |
And so refin'd, that when God was alone |
And creaturelesse, at first, himselfe had none |
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But, as of th'Elements, these w.ch wee tread |
Produce all things with w.ch wee are ioy'd or fedd |
And those ar barren both aboue our head. |
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So from low persons doth all honor flow. |
Kings, whome they would haue honord to vs showe |
And but direct our Honor not bestow. |
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ffor when from herbes the pure parts must bee wonne |
ffrom grosse by stilling, this is better donne |
By despisd dongue then by the fire or Sunne. |
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Care not then, Lady, how low your praysers bee. |
In labourers Ballads oft more piety |
God finds then in Te Deums melody. |
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And ordnance raysd on Towers, so many mile |
Send not theyr voyce, nor lust so long a while |
As fires from th' Earths low vaults in Sicil Isle. |
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Should I say I liu'd darker then were true |
Yor radiation can all clouds subdue. |
But one, tis best light, to contemplate you. |
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You for whose body God made better clay |
Or tooke Soules stuff, such as shall late decay |
Or such as needes small change at the last day
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[CW: This___] |