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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.|
Springe
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.|
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,

[CW: Stars]