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SONNET DCCLXIII
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Though absence seem'd my flame to qualify,
Give warning to the world that I am fled
Who, in despite of view, is pleased to dote.
Have I not seen dwellers on form and favour
The right of sepulchres, were shorn away,
Sweet beauty hath no name, no holy bower,
How far I toil, still farther off from thee.
So all their praises are but prophecies
She may detain, but not still keep, her treasure:
But, like a sad slave, stay and think of nought
And die as fast as they see others grow;
   How like Eve's apple doth thy beauty grow,
   Lest eyes well-seeing thy foul faults should find.

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