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Fruits of much griefe they are, emblemes of more,
When a tearfals, that thou falst which it bore,
So thou and I are nothing then, when on a divers shore
On a round ball
A workeman that hath copies by can lay
An Europe, Afrique, and an Asia,
And quickly make that, which was nothing, All
So doe each teare,
Which thee doth weare,
A globe, yea world by that impression grow,
Till thy teares mixt with mine doe overflow
This world, by waters sent from thee, my heaven dissolved so.
O more then Moone,
Draw not up seas to drowne me in thy speare,
Weep 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 sigh's most, is cruellest, and hasts the others death.
Loves Alchymie.
Some that have deeper digg'd loves Myne than 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;

[CW: Oh,]