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SONNET DCCLXXII
That thou hast her it is not all my grief,
And for that sorrow, which I then did feel,
But 'tis my heart that loves what they despise,
That barren tender of a poet's debt:
Then thou, whose shadow shadows doth make bright,
Thy hungry eyes, even till they wink with fulness,
To-morrow see again, and do not kill
Even such a beauty as you master now.
Ay me! but yet thou mightst my seat forbear,
Had, having, and in quest, to have extreme;
Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so;
Where thou art forced to break a twofold truth:--
   In things right true my heart and eyes have err'd,
   Mine be thy love and thy love's use their treasure.

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