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The Spring |
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I scarse beleeue my Loue to bee so pure [274] |
As I had thought it was |
Because it doth endure |
Vicissitude and Season as the Grasse |
Mee thinkes I l'yd all winter when I swore |
My loue was infinite, if Spring make it more |
But if this Medicine loue, wch cures all sorrowe |
With more, not onely bee no quintessence |
But mixd of all stuffs vexing soule or sence |
And of the Sunne his actiue vigour borrow |
Loue's not so pure an abstract as they vse |
To say who haue no Mistresse but theyr Muse. |
But, as all else, beeing elemented too |
Loue would sometimes contemplate, sometimes doe |
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And yet not greater but more eminent |
Loue by the Spring is growne |
As in the firmament |
Starrs by the Sunne are not enlargd but showne |
Gentle loue-deeds, as blossoms on a bowe |
ffrom Loues awakned roote do budd out new. |
If, as in waters stirrd more Circles bee |
Produc'd by one; love such additions take |
Those like to many Spheares, but one heauen make. |
ffor they are all concentrique vnto thee |
And though each Spring do add to Love new heate |
As Princes doe, in time of action, gett |
New Taxes, and remitt them not in peace |
No winter shall abate this Springs increase
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[CW: Twice or] |