Three april purfumes in three hot junes burnd My love shall in my verse ever live young If they were filled with your high deserts Oh, him she stares to show what wealth she had; You to your beautious blessing add a curse.
Past cure i am, now reason is past care- My tongue tied patience with too much disdain.
Then this rich praise- that you alone are you?
Chiding that tongue- that ever sweet.
And time, that gave, that doth now his gift confound; No longer moun for me when i am dead.
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