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To rage, to lust, to write to, to commend, |
All is the purlue of the God of Love. |
Were we not weak'ned by this Tyranny |
To ungod this child again, it could not be |
I should love her, who loves not me. |
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Rebel and Atheist too, why murmure I. |
As though I felt the worst that love could do? |
Love may make me leave loving, or might try |
A deeper plague, to make her love me too, |
Which, since she loves before, I'm loth to see; |
Falshood is worse than hate; and that must be, |
If she whom I love, should love me. |
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Loves diet. |
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To what a combersom unwieldiness |
And burdenous corpulence my love had grown, |
But that I did, to make it less, |
And keep it in proportion, |
Give it a diet, made it feed upon |
That which love worst indures, discretion. |
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Above one sigh a day I allow'd him not, |
Of which my fortune, and my faults had part; |
And if sometimes by stealth he got |
A she sigh from my mistress heart, |
And thought to feast on that, I let him see |
'Twas neither very sound, nor meant to me: |
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If he wrung from me a tear, I brin'd it so |
With scorn or shame, that him it nourish'd not; |
If he suck'd hers, I let him know |
'Twas not a tear, which he had got.
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[CW: His] |