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The Computation. |
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For my first twenty years, since yesterday, |
I scarce beleev'd, thou couldst be gone away, |
For forty more I fed on favours past, |
And forty' on hopes, that thou wouldst they might last. |
Tears drown'd one hundred, and sighs blew out two, |
A thousand, I did neither thinke, nor doe, |
Or not deem'd, all being one thought of you; |
Or in a thousand more, forgot that too. |
Yet call not this long life; But thinke that I |
Am, by being dead, Immortall; Can ghosts die? |
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The Paradox. |
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No Lover saith, I love, nor any other |
Can judge a perfect Lover; |
He thinkes that else none can or will agree, |
That any loves but hee: |
I cannot say I lov'd, for who can say |
He was kill'd yesterday. |
Love with excesse of heat, more young than old, |
Death kils with too much cold; |
We die but once, and who lov'd last did die, |
He that faith twice, doth lie:
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[CW: For] |