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Changd loues are but changd sorts of meate, [f. 95v] |
And when he hath the kernell eate, |
Who doth not flinge away the shell.| |
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Springe |
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I scarce beleeve my love to be soe pure |
As I had thought it was |
Because it doth endure |
Vicissitude, and season, as the grass. |
Me thinkes I lyed all winter, when I swore |
My love was infinite, if spring make it more.| |
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But if this medicine loue, wch cures all sorow |
Wth more, not only be no quintessence, |
But mixt of all stuffes, payning soule, or sense, |
And of the Sunne, his working vigor borrow, |
Loves not soe pure, and abstract, as they vse |
To say, wch have noe M:rs but their muse. |
But as all theis, being elemented tooe, |
Love sometimes would Contemplate, sometimes doe. |
And yett not greater but more eminent |
Love by the spring is growen, |
As in the firmament,
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[CW: Stars] |