| My thoughts are wing’d with hopes, my hopes with love.
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| Mount, Love, unto the moon in clearest night
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| And say, as she doth in the heavens move,
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| In earth so wanes and waxeth my delight;
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| And whisper this but softly in her ears:
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| Hope oft doth hang the head, and trust shed tears.
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| And you my thoughts that some mistrust do carry,
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| If for mistrust my mistress do you blame,
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| Say though you alter, yet you do not vary
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| And she doth change, and yet remain the same:
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| Distrust doth enter hearts, but not infect,
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| And love is sweetest season’d with suspect.
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| If she, for this, with clouds do mask her eyes
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| And make the heavens dark with her disdain,
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| With windy sighs, disperse them in the skies
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| Or with thy tears dissolve them into rain;
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| Thoughts, hopes, and love return to me no more
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| Till Cynthia shine as she hath done before. |