| Since she whom I lov’d hath pay’d her last debt
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| To Nature, and to hers, and my good is dead,
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| And her Soule early into Heaven ravished,
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| Wholly on heavenly things my mind is sett.
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| Here the admyring her my mind did whett
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| To seeke thee God; |
| so streams do shew their head;
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| But though I have found thee and thou my thirst hast fed,
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| A holy thirsty dropsy melts mee yett,
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| But why should I begg more love, when as thou
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| Dost wooe my soul for hers: off’ring all thine:
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| And dost not only feare lest I allow
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| My love to Saints and Angels, things divine,
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| But in thy tender jealousy dost doubt
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| 1, yea, Devill putt thee out. |