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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 |
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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. |
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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. |
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Loves Alchymie. |
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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;
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[CW: Oh,] |
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