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To his unkind M.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

To his unkind M.

Sure thy heart was flesh at first,
For what sin hath it been curst
Into that stubborn thing of late,
Above the reach of wonder? what
In some winter was it lost,
And its blood drunk up by frost,
Grew stiffe, and so a rock became?
Yet this would soften at a flame.
Or didst thou bathe thy pretty limbs
In some cold and fatal streams,
Which turn what they embrace to stone,
And by degrees thy heart grew one?

3

I know not, but too true I find
A Quarry of prodigious kind:
Yet since I lov'd it, I will try
From the warm Limbeck of my eye,
In such a method to distil
Tears on thy marble nature, till
Their frequent drops by loves new Art,
Write my Epitaph on thy heart;
That men may know for whom I die,
And say beneath that stone I lie.