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The Blossome.
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.
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.
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?

[CW: Well]