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A Mother hearing her child was sick of the Small-Poxe.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 


49

A Mother hearing her child was sick of the Small-Poxe.

What hath my pretty child misdone?
That heaven so soon,
(As if it did repent
The sweetnes it had lent)
Making so many graves, mistook the place,
And buryed all her beauty in her face.
But it foresaw if she remain'd
Fresh and unstain'd,
So blooming in each part,
She might take every heart,
Charme all the Muses to forget their verse,
Or name no beauty in their song, but hers.
But this is still my sorrow child,
With which turn'd wild,
I send my tears to seek,
And bathe thy withered cheek:
Which could my kisses reach, with warm supplies,
I would leave thee no spots, or me no eyes.