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“ For every little grief to wet his eyes : “ To grow unto himself was his desire,
“ And so 'tis thine; but know, it is as good “ To wither in my breast, as in his blood.
“ Here was thy father's bed, here in
breast; “ Thou art the next of blood, and 'tis thy right: “ Lo! in this hollow cradle take thy rest, “My throbbing heart shall rock thee day and night:
“ There shall not be one minute in an hour
Thus weary of the world, away she hies,
RIGHT HONOURABLE HENRY WRIOTHESLY,
EARL OF SOUTHAMPTON, AND BARON OP TITCHFIELD.
The love I dedicate to your Lordship is without end; whereof this pamphlet, without beginning, is but a superfluous moiety.1 The warrant I have of your honourable disposition, not the worth of my untutored lines, makes it assured of accept
What I have done is yours, what I have to do is yours; being part in all I have, devoted yours. Were
my worth greater, my duty would show greater: meantime, as it is, it is bound to your lordship, to whom I wish long life, still lengthened with happiness.
Your Lordship’s in all duty,
i muiety) i.e. part.