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But they are ours as fruits are ours,
He that but tastes, he that devours,
And he that leaves all, doth as well,
Chang'd loves are but chang'd sorts of meate;
And when he hath the kernel eate,
Who doth not fling away the shell?
Loves growth.
I scarce believe my love to be so pure
As I had thought it was,
Because it doth endure
Vicissitude, and season, as the grass;
Methinks I lied all winter, when I swore,
My love was infinite, if spring make't more.
But if this medicine love, which cures all sorrow
With more, not only be no quintessence,
But mixt of all stuffs vexing soul, or sense,
And of the Sun his active vigour borrow,
Love's not so pure an abstract, as they use
To say, which have no Mistress but their Muse,
But, as all else, being elemented too,
Love sometimes would contemplate, sometimes do.
And yet no greater, but more eminent,
Love by the spring is grown;
As in the firmament,
Stars by the Sun are not inlarge'd, but shown.
Gentle love deeds, are blossoms on a bough,
From loves awakened root doe bud out now.
If, as in water stir'd more circles be
Produc'd by one, love such additions take,

[CW: Those]