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Men-Miracles

With other Poemes. By M. LL. St [i.e.Martin Lluelyn]
  

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To my Lady Ch
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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70

To my Lady Ch

Madam,

Tenants with Aches and sore eyes,
Or he that on his Death Bedlyes,
And now must dye, when it is knowne,
That you who were their Cure are gone,
Suffers not more in your Remove.
Not the Parson, who I'me sure is loath,
To shake hands with your Table-Cloath.
Whose slender soule could never looke,
For freind at Chichley but the Cooke:
And onely doth your Chimney love:
He whom your Meales could onely fix,
Who loves you just at Twelve and Six.
Who greives for th'Servants, not that they
Seeme to depart, but take away,
And leave not Empty house but board.
How will he preach when first he sees,
Nought to inspire him but his Cheese?

71

And that so hard and void of sappe,
It maimes more Rats then doth the Trappe,
When they assault his Thrifty Hoard.
Thus much I owe him for's delay,
O'th Blisse which in your Papers lay,
Should you then Madam hide your smiles,
As farre in Lands as now in Miles,
My zealous verse should trace you out, and then
Heel write while he hath either Hand or Pen.
who subscribes himselfe, &c.