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Loves growth. |
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I scarce beleeve my love to be so pure |
As I had thought it was, |
Because it doth endure |
Vicissitude, and season, as the grasse; |
Me thinkes I lyed all winter, when I swore, |
My love was infinite, if spring make'it more. |
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But if this medicine, love, which cures all sorrow |
With more, not onely bee no quintessence, |
But mixt of all stuffes, paining soule, or sense, |
And of the Sunne his working vigour borrow, |
Love's not so pure, and abstract, as they use |
To say, which have no Mistresse but their Muse, |
But as all else, being elemented too, |
Love sometimes would contemplate, sometimes do |
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And yet no greater, but more eminent, |
Love by the spring is growne; |
As, in the firmament, |
Starres by the Sunne are not inlarg'd, but showne, |
Gentle love deeds, as blossomes on a bough, |
From loves awakened root do bud out now. |
If, as in water stir'd more circles bee |
Produc'd by one, love such additions take, |
Those like so many spheares, but one heaven make, |
For, they are all concentrique unto thee,
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[CW: And] |