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Thy firmnesse makes my circle just, |
And makes me end where I begun. |
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The Extasie. |
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Where, like a pillow on a bed, |
A Pregnant banke swell'd up, to rest |
The violets reclining head, |
Sat we two, one anothers best; |
Our hands were firmely cimented |
By a fast balme, which thence did spring, |
Our eye-beames twisted, and did thred |
Our eyes upon one double string, |
So to engraft our hands, as yet |
Was all the meanes to make us one, |
And pictures in our eyes to get |
Was all our propagation. |
As 'twixt two equall Armies, Fate |
Suspends uncertaine victory, |
Our soules, (which to advance our state, |
Were gone out, hung 'twixt her and me. |
And whil'st our soules negotiate there, |
We like sepulchrall statues lay, |
All day, the same our postures were, |
And we said nothing, all the day. |
If any, so by love refin'd, |
That he soules language understood, |
And by good love were growne all minde, |
Within convenient distance stood, |
He (though he knew not which soule spake,
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[CW: Because] |