BEN JONSON
His falling temples you have rear'd, The wither'd garlands ta'en away; His altars kept from that decay
That envy wish'd, and nature fear'd:
And en them burn so chaste a flame, With so much loyalty's expense, As Love to acquit such excellence
Is gone himself into your name.
And you arc he the deity
To whom all lovers arc design 'd Thit would their better objects find,
Among which faithful troop am I
Who as an offering at your shrine
Have sung this hymn, and here entreat One spark of your diviner heat
To light upon a love of mine
Which if it kindle not, but scant Appear, and that to shortest view; Yet give me leave to adore in you
What I in her am grieved to want!
��*>oi The Noble Balm
HIGH-SPIRITED friend, I send nor balms nor cor'sivcs to your wound.
Your fate hath found A gentler and more agile hand to tend The cure of that which is but corporal; And doubtful days, which were named critical,
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