92
Tixall Poetry.
And nere goe farther, though I'me sure you'de finde,
If not mongst men, most women of this minde.
Tis not selfe-love in me, who to correct
Your erreur with my shame doe truth protect;
A blush I can afford for every line,
The subiects spotles, all the faults are mine.
If not mongst men, most women of this minde.
Tis not selfe-love in me, who to correct
Your erreur with my shame doe truth protect;
A blush I can afford for every line,
The subiects spotles, all the faults are mine.
Upon
A Command to Write on My Father.
Teares I could soone have brought unto this hearse,
And thoughts, and sighs, but you command a verse;
And here it is, I am so much concern'd
If ere I write I am againe unlearn'd.
For greife does all things els annihilate,
As not consistent with his high estate.
If you will be obay'd, He hold the pen,
But you must guide my hand, instruct me then.
Dead must I say? I doe the author see
That gave me life, and not that death kill me!
And thoughts, and sighs, but you command a verse;
And here it is, I am so much concern'd
If ere I write I am againe unlearn'd.
For greife does all things els annihilate,
As not consistent with his high estate.
If you will be obay'd, He hold the pen,
But you must guide my hand, instruct me then.
Dead must I say? I doe the author see
That gave me life, and not that death kill me!
