That eagle's fate and mine are one, Which, on the shaft that made him die, Espied a feather of his own, Wherewith he wont to soar so high.
Circle are praised, not that abound, In largeness, but the exactly round.
While we converse with her, we mark No want of day, nor think it dark.
And as pale sickness does invade, Your frailer part, the breaches made, In that fair lodging still more clear, Make the bright guest, your soul, appear.
To man, that was in th' evening made, Stars gave the first delight; Admiring, in the gloomy shade, Those little drops of light.
So must the writer, whose productions should Take with the vulgar, be of vulgar mould.
Give us enough but with a sparing hand.
Under the tropic is our language spoke, And part of Flanders hath receiv'd our yoke.
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