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Never my book's perfection did appear Till I had got the name of Villars here: Now 'tis so full that when therein I look I see a cloud of glory fills my book. Here stand it still to dignify our Muse, Your sober handmaid, who doth wisely choose Your name to be a laureate wreath to her Who doth both love and fear you, honoured sir.

Love, I recant, And pardon crave That lately I offended; But 'twas, Alas! To make a brave, But no disdain intended.

No more I'll vaunt, For now I see Thou only hast the power To find And bind A heart that's free, And slave it in an hour.