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SONNET CCLXVIII
Since I left you, mine eye is in my mind;
When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
While shadows like to thee do mock my sight?
For since each hand hath put on Nature's power,
Pointing to each his thunder, rain and wind,
Another time mine eye is my heart's guest,
And Time that gave doth now his gift confound.
Speak of the spring, and foison of the year,
Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss:
When in dead night thy fair imperfect shade
Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.
   Let them say more that like of hearsay well;
   Kill me with spites yet we must not be foes.

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