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The Blossome. |
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Little think'st thou, poore flower, |
Whom I have watch'd sixe or seven dayes, |
And seene thy birth, and seene what every houre |
Gaue to thy growth, thee to this height to raise, |
And now dost laugh and triumph on this bough, |
Little think'st thou |
That it will freeze anon, and that I shall |
To morrow finde thee falne, or not at all. |
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Little think'st thou poore heart |
That labourest yet to nestle thee, |
And think'st by hovering here to get a part |
In a forbidden or forbidding tree, |
And hop'st her stiffenesse by long siege to bow: |
Little think'st thou, |
That thou to morrow, ere the Sunne doth wake, |
Must with this Sunne, and me a journey take. |
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But thou which lov'st to be |
Subtle to plague thy selfe, wilt say, |
Alas, if you must goe, what's that to me? |
Here lies my businesse, and here I will stay: |
You goe to friends, whose love and meanes present |
Various content |
To your eyes, eares, and taste, and every part. |
If then your body goe, what need your heart?
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[CW: Well] |