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Poem by George Herbert
Who sayes that fictions onely and false hair Become a verse? Is there in truth no beautie? Is all good structure in a winding stair? May no lines passe, except they do their dutie Not to a true, but painted chair? Is it not verse, except enchanted groves And sudden arbours shadow coarse-spunne lines? Must purling streams refresh a lover's loves? Must all be vail'd, while he that reades, divines, Catching the sense at two removes? Shepherds are honest people; let them sing: Riddle who list, for me, and pull for Prime: I envie no man's nightingale or spring; Nor let them punish me with losse of ryme, Who plainly say, My God, My King.
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