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My fire of Passion, sighes of ayre, |
Water of teares, and earthly sad despaire, |
Which my materialls bee, |
But ne'r worne out by loves securitie, |
Shee, to my losse, doth by her death repaire, |
And I might live long wretched so |
But that my fire doth with my fuell grow. |
Now as those Active Kings |
Whose foraine conquest treasure brings, |
Receive more, and spend more, and soonest breake: |
This (which I am amaz'd that I can speake) |
This death, hath with my store |
My use encrease'd. |
And so my soule more earnestly releas'd, |
Will outstrip hers; As bullets flowen before |
A latter bullet may o'rtake, the pouder being more. |
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A Ieat Ring sent. |
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Thou art not so black, as my heart, |
Nor halfe so brittle, as her heart, thou art; |
What would'st thou say? shall both our properties by thee bee spoke |
Nothing more endlesse, nothing sooner broke? |
Marriage rings are not of this stuffe; |
Oh, why should ought lesse precious, or lesse tough |
Figure our loves? Except in thy name thou have bid it say |
I'am cheap, & nought but fashion, fling me'away.
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[CW: Yet] |