Lord, in my silence how do I despise What upon Trust Is styled honour, riches, or fair eyes; But is fair dust! I surname them guilded clay, Deare earth, fine grasse or hay; In all, I think my foot doth ever tread Upon their head. But when I view abroad both Regiments; The worlds, and thine: Thine clad with simplenesse, and sad events; The other fine, Full of glorie and gay weeds, Brave language, braver deeds: That which was dust before, doth quickly rise, And prick mine eyes. O brook not this, lest if what even now My foot did tread, Affront those joyes, wherewith thou didst endow And long since wed My poore soul, evn sick of love: It may a Babel prove Commodious to conquer heavn and thee Planted in me.
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