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SONNET DXXXVIII
Beshrew that heart that makes my heart to groan
And that which governs me to go about
But now my gracious numbers are decay'd,
All mine was thine, before thou hadst this more.
Even so, being full of your ne'er-cloying sweetness,
And broils root out the work of masonry,
My saucy bark, inferior far to his,
On purpose laid to make the taker mad:
Let me excuse thee: ah! my love well knows
Her eyes so suited, and they mourners seem
Wh'r we are mended, or wh'r better they,
Too base of thee to be remembered,.
   Then do thy office, Muse; I teach thee how
   Her 'love,' for whose dear love I rise and fall.

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