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O more then Moone, |
Draw not up seas to drowne me in thy spheare, |
Weepe me not dead, in thine armes, but forbeare |
To teach the sea, what it may doe too soone, |
Let not the winde |
Example finde, |
To doe me more harme, then it purposeth, |
Since thou and I sigh one anothers breath, |
Who e'r sighes most, is cruellest, and hasts the others death. |
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Loves Alchymie. |
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Some that have deeper digg'd loves Myne then I, |
Say, where his centrique happinesse doth lie: |
I have lov'd, and got, and told, |
But should I love, get, tell, till I were old, |
I should not finde that hidden mysterie; |
Oh, 'tis imposture all: |
And as no chymique yet th'Elixar got, |
But glorifies his pregnant pot, |
If by the way to him befall |
Some odoriferous thing, or medicinall, |
So, lovers dreame a rich and long delight, |
But get a winter-seeming summers night.
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[CW: Our] |