| Go crystal tears, like to the morning show’rs
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| And sweetly weep into thy lady’s breast.
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| And as the dews rerive the drooping flow’rs,
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| So let your drops of pity be address’d,
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| To quicken up the thoughts of my desert,
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| Which sleeps too sound whilst I from her depart.
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| Haste restless sighs, and let your burning breath
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| Dissolve the ice of her indurate heart,
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| Whose frozen rigour like forgetful Death,
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| Feels never any touch of my desert:
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| Yet sighs and tears to her I sacrifice,
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| B oth from a spotless heart and patient eyes |