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TO HIS LOVING KINDE FRIEND, Maister Iohn Bodenham.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

TO HIS LOVING KINDE FRIEND, Maister Iohn Bodenham.

Wits Common-wealth, the first fruites of thy paines,
Drew on Wits Theater, thy second Sonne:
By both of which, I cannot count the gaines,
And wondrous profit that the world hath wonne.
Next, in the Muses Garden, gathering flowres,
Thou mad'st a Nosegay, as was neuer sweeter:
Whose sent will sauour to Times latest howres,
And for the greatest Prince no Poesie meeter.
Now comes thy Helicon, to make compleate
And furnish vp thy last impos'd designe:
My paines heerein, I cannot terme it great,
But what-so-ere, my loue (and all) is thine.
Take loue, take paines, take all remaines in me:
And where thou art, my hart still liues with thee.
A. B.