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FROM BRITISH MUSEUM
Ivory Tribunall of your hand
AT (thaire ore) These tender leaves de trembling stand.
Knowing 'tis in the doome of your sweet Eye
Hough now 'tis neither May nor June
Out of Grotius his Tragedy of Christes sufferinges.
Doth graspe the fate of thinges, and share th' events Of future chance! the world's grand Sire; and mine Before the world. Obedient lo! I joyne
An æquall pace thus farre; thy word my deedes
When a wild sword ev'n from their brests, did lop
Of their mad sin; (how great! and yett how vayne!)
The world my father, then does envy swell
And breake upon mee: my owne virtues height
But Isaacks issue the peculiar heyres,
Of thy old goodnesse, know thee not for theires,
The stiffe neck'd Pharisees that use to mocke
His court-fed impes against this hated head.
And streight of all this approbation gate
The wild waves couch'd; the sea forgott to sweat
Himselfe in his owne hell; and now lets loose