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A Song On The Baths

 What Angel stirrs this happy Well,
Some Muse from thence come shew't me,
One of those naked Graces tell
That Angels are for beauty:
The Lame themselves that enter here
Come Angels out againe,
And Bodies turne to Soules all cleere,
All made for joy, noe payne.
Heate never was so sweetely mett With moist as in this shower: Old men are borne anew by swett Of its restoring pow'r: When crippl'd joynts we suppl'd see, And second lives new come, Who can deny this Font to be The Bodies Christendome? One Bath so fiery is you'l thinke The Water is all Spirit, Whose quick'ning streames are like the drink Whereby we Life inheritt: The second Poole of middle straine Can wive Virginity, Tempting the blood to such a vayne One sexe is He and She.
The third where horses plunge may bring A Pegasus to reare us, And call for pens from Bladud's wing For legging those that beare us.
Why should Physitians thither fly Where Waters med'cines be, Physitians come to cure thereby, And are more cur'd than we

Poem by William Strode
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