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SONNET DCCLXXVIII
Then hate me when thou wilt; if ever, now;
And therefore to your fair no painting set;
The ornament of beauty is suspect,
What old December's bareness everywhere!
I grant, sweet love, thy lovely argument
I must each day say o'er the very same;
Or say with princes if it shall go well
In singleness the parts that thou shouldst bear.
Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
If any, be a satire to decay,
Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid?
   Receiving nought by elements so slow
   When tyrants' crests and tombs of brass are spent.

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