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New Years Day. 1657.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

New Years Day. 1657.

To my Dear Friend W. M. Esq;

Though 'mongst the numerous throng I'me hither come
With one poor Item, 'tis my total sum
A poets stock (though no great matter 'tis)
Is all that one can wish, and such is this.
Health that's the joy of life, and soul of Mirth,
Bane to despaire, and comfort of our birth,
May't with your years, as clearly last & rise
As 'twas e're winds had blasted Paradise!

174

Wealth! the support of pleasures, and the Crown
Of worldly hope! the Glory and Renown
Of fortunes white Boyes: the fond Beggars Grutch;
Envy'd of only those deserve not much.
May this (and each) year, yeild to my Lov'd moyle,
As a Perpetual-triumph and a spoyle!
Now, as who not enjoy, or Covet more,
Are but their Riches Gaolers, & stil Poor,
May the same equal temper, the same fire,
(That never flagg'd too low, nor can mount higher)
Inflame your Breast; where to be ever sent
That which all seek (but find not) true content:
May all your Aimes atchive their purpos'd end,
And never find, what 'tis to want a friend,
Unless the kinder Heavens had me assign'd
As much of power to serve you, as of mind,
Then need you, wish no more for't should be known,
How far I prize your fortunes 'bove mine own.

175

'Mongst other gifts, I'le give you this gift too
I ne're found friend, so much a friend, as you.