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SONNET CCLXXV
Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that smells,
And that which governs me to go about
Wound me not with thine eye, but with thy tongue:
Darkening thy power to lend base subjects light?
Compare them with the bett'ring of the time,
To set a form upon desired change,
Nor Mars his sword, nor war's quick fire shall burn
And strength by limping sway disabled
Not that the summer is less pleasant now
Save where thou art not, though I feel thou art,
And 'gainst myself a lawful plea commence:
They had not skill enough your worth to sing:
   So true a fool is love, that in your will,
   Sweet flattery! then she loves but me alone.

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