| When fourty nights shall beside you brow
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| And dig deep wounds in your beauty now
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| Your youth’s proud livery so gazed on me
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| Tomorrow will be darkened sealed
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| Look how a bird lies tangeled in a net
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| Pure shame and awed resistance made him fred
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| So fastened in her arms the favoured lies
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| She found more beauty in his varied eyes
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| Cut is the brunch that might be grown
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| With you faith, the treasure of your lusty days
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| Then being asked where all your beauty lies
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| I say it to your deep-sunken eyes
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| «As if the dead the living should exceed
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| Possessed by heavens heart and hand»
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| He burns with basful shame
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| She with her tears does quench the maiden
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| Burning off her cheeks
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| Then with her windy sighs and golden hands
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| To fain and blow them dry again she seeks
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| Look how a painter would surpass his life
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| His art with nature’s workmanship at strife
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| In limmming out a well-proportioned steed
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| As if the dead the living should exceed |