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SONNET CCCXCII
So oft have I invoked thee for my Muse,
And each doth good turns now unto the other:
But then begins a journey in my head
Thy lovers withering, as thy sweet self grow'st.
Your name from hence immortal life shall have,
And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,
As if by some instinct the wretch did know
Pitiful thrivers, in their gazing spent?
Past cure I am, now Reason is past care,
And to the most of praise add something more;
Mine eye well knows what with his gust is 'greeing,
Crowning the present, doubting of the rest?
   You still shall live,--such virtue hath my pen,--
   Even that your pity is enough to cure me.

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