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Then thus thy leaves we justly may commend,
That they all kind of matter comprehend.
Thus thou, by means, which th'ancients never took,
A pandect mak’st, and universal book.
The bravest heroes, for their country's good,
Scatter'd in divers lands their limbs and blood;
Worst malefactors, to whom men are prize,
Do public good, cut in anatomies ;
So will thy book in pieces, for a lord,
Which casts at Portescue's, and all the board
Provide whole books; each leaf enough will be
For friends to pass time, and keep company.
Can all carouse up thee? no, thou must fit
Measures; and fill out for the half-pint wit.
Some shall wrap pills, and save a friend's life so;
Some shall stop muskets, and so kill a foe.
Thou shalt not ease the critics of next age
So much, as once their hunger to assuage:
Nor shall wit-pirates hope to find thee lie
All in one bottom, in one library.
Some leaves may paste strings there in other books,
And so one may, which on another looks,
Pilfer, alas! a little wit from you;
But hardly much ; and yet I think this true.
As Sibil's was, your book is mystical,
For every piece is as much worth as all.
Therefore mine impotency I confess,
The healths, which my brain bears, must be far less :
Thy giant-wit o’erthrows me, I am gone;
And, rather than read all, I would read none.

I. D

SONNET.

THE TOKEN.

SEND me some tokens, that my hope may live,

Or that my easeless thoughts may sleep and rest; Send me some honey, to make sweet my hive,

That in my passions I may hope the best.
I beg nor ribband wrought with thy own hands,

To knit our loves in the fantastic strain
Of new-touch'd youth ; nor ring, to show the stands

Of our affection, that, as that's round and plain, So should our loves meet in simplicity;

No, nor the corals, which thy wrist enfold, Lac'd up together in congruity,

To show our thoughts should rest in the same

hold;

No, nor thy picture, though most gracious,

And most desir'd, 'cause 'tis like the best; Nor witty lines, which are most copious,

Within the writings, which thou hast address’d. Send me nor this, nor that, t increase my score; But swear thou think'st I love thee, and no more.

SELECT POEMS

OF

JOSEPH HALL, D. D.

WITH

A LIFE OF THE AUTHOR,

EZEKIEL SANFORD.

R2

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