| If my complaints could passions move
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| Or make Love see wherein I suffer wrong:
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| My passions were enough to prove
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| That my despairs had govern’d me too long
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| O Love, I live and die in thee
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| Thy grief in my deep sighs still speaks:
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| Thy wounds do freshly bleed in me
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| My heart for thy unkindness breaks:
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| Yet thou dost hope when I despair
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| And when I hope, thou mak’st me hope in vain
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| Thou say’st thou canst my harms repair
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| Yet for redress, thou let’st me still complain
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| Can Love be rich, and yet I want?
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| Is Love my judge, and yet I am condemn’d?
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| Thou plenty hast, yet me dost scant:
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| Thou made a God, and yet thy power contemn’d
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| That I do live, it is thy power:
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| That I desire it is thy worth:
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| If Love doth make men’s lives too sour
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| Let me not love, nor live henceforth
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| Die shall my hopes, but not my faith
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| That you that of my fall may hearers be
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| May here despair, which truly saith
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| I was more true to Love than Love to me |