TIS false Astronomy: wee are not yet
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In utter-darknesse, though the Sun be set;
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Since thy star-beaming-influence proves all
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Those Rules Excentrique, and Apocryphall.
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Thourt heighthnd by thy Fall; and dost now shine
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With doubled lustre, since thy last Decline.
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Bright mirrour of our Spheare! who wert no lesse
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Then Valours wonder: Vertues Master-peece;
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Filling whole Volumes with thy Fame; to tell
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The World Thy Worth was Hir owne Chronicle.
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To tell the World, those Prayses in the Wars
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Thouast purchasd, might be numbred with the Stars;
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And had thy well-proportiond-Dayes been Spunne
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Out by thy Deeds, thou hadst out-livd the Sunne;
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Forcing the Worlds great Luminary t have
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His Chaos climacterick with thy Grave.
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Thus thy renowned Meeds like Incense hurld
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On flaming Altars have Perfumd the World,
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With such rich Odours, that scarce envie knew
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Whether thou wert to King, or Realme most true;
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Let State-Chronographers admire, and plead
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Those Rites they owe to Honour; when they read
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Thy rare Atchievements; studying to refine
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The truth of Moderne Historie by Thine.
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Carthage bee dumb! our Colchester stands now
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Corrivall with thee, and dares more then Thou;
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And all those Punick warres thy walls could boast,
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Have ore and ore been traversd on Hir coast.
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Romes three Horatii are Posd; our Isle
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Hath bred a Capell, Lucas, and a Lisle:
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Whose matchlesse Deeds have Dubd them with that late
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And glorious title of Triumvirate;
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Whiles their transcendent merit struts, and strives
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To stand on tip-toe in Superlatives.
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And still theres somthing more; for, what was mixt
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Promiscuously in these, in Thee was fixt.
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In Thee that Pythagorean Maximes true;
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And what was State Philosophie, proves new
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Divinitie, since th Soules of all those Nine
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Renowned Ones Transmigrated to Thine.
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But why doe wee Adore thee, made immense
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And farre sublimd above our Spheare of sense?
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Scorning bright Obelisques of Brasse, or Stone
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Should raise thy Monument, who art thine owne.
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