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Poem by Richard Lovelace
I. Tis true the beauteous Starre To which I first did bow Burnt quicker, brighter far, Than that which leads me now; Which shines with more delight, For gazing on that light So long, neere lost my sight. II. Through foul we follow faire, For had the world one face, And earth been bright as ayre, We had knowne neither place. Indians smell not their neast; A Swisse or Finne tastes best The spices of the East. III. So from the glorious Sunne Who to his height hath got, With what delight we runne To some black cave or grot! And, heav'nly Sydney you Twice read, had rather view Some odde romance so new. IV. The god, that constant keepes Unto his deities, Is poore in joyes, and sleepes Imprison'd in the skies. This knew the wisest, who From Juno stole, below To love a bear or cow.
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