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All is the purlewe of the God of Love. |
Oh were wee wak'ned by this Tyrannie |
To ungod this child againe, it could not bee* |
I should love her, who loves not mee. |
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Rebell and Atheist too, why murmure I, |
As though I felt the worst that love could doe? |
Love may make me leave loving, or might trie |
A deeper plague, to make her love mee too, |
Which since she loves before, I'am loth to see; |
Falshood is worse then hate; and that must bee, |
If shee whom I love, should love mee. |
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Loves diet. |
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To what a combersome unwieldinesse |
And burdenous corpulence my love had growne, |
But that I did, to make it lesse, |
And keepe it in proportion, |
Give it a diet, made it feed upon |
That which love worst endures, 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 mistresse heart, |
And thought to feast on that, I let him see |
'Twas neither very sound, nor meant to mee;
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[CW: If] |