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SONNET DCCCLXXXIII
Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate,
Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme;
But 'tis my heart that loves what they despise,
Although in me each part will be forgotten.
I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,
'Truth needs no colour, with his colour fix'd;
As interest of the dead, which now appear
To linger out a purpos'd overthrow.
Hearing you praised, I say ''tis so, 'tis true,'
That sometimes anger thrusts into his hide,
The injuries that to myself I do,
That they elsewhere might dart their injuries:
   So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
   To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.

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