Thou hast redeem'd us, will; and future Times,Shall not account unto the Age's crimesDearth of pure Wit: since the great Lord of it(Donne) parted hence, no Man has ever writSo neere him, in's owne way: I would commendParticulars, but then, how should I endWithout a Volume? Ev'ry Line of thineWould aske (to praise it right) Twenty of mine.
