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Our mariage bed, and mariage temple is; |
Though parents grudge, and you, w'are met, |
And cloysterd in these living walls of Jet. |
Though use make you apt to kill mee, |
Let not to that, selfe murder added bee, |
And sacrilege, three sinnes in killing three. |
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Cruell and sodaine, hast thou since |
Purpled thy naile, in blood of innocence? |
Wherein could this flea guilty bee, |
Except in that drop which it suckt from thee? |
Yet thou triumph'st, and saist that thou |
Find'st not thy selfe, nor mee the weaker now; |
'Tis true, then learne how false, feares bee; |
Just so much honor, when thou yeeld'st to mee, |
Will wast, as this flea's death tooke life from thee. |
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The Curse. |
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Who ever guesses, thinks, or dreames he knowes |
Who is my mistris, wither by this curse; |
His only, and only his purse |
May some dull heart to love dispose, |
And shee yeeld then to all that are his foes; |
May he be scorn'd by one, whom all else scorne, |
Forsweare to others, what to her he'hath sworne, |
With feare of missing, shame of getting torne;
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[CW: Madnesse] |