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SONNET CMXXXVIII
Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth,
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
To me are nothing novel, nothing strange;
And you but one, can every shadow lend.
The canker blooms have full as deep a dye
And like unlettered clerk still cry 'Amen'
Have added feathers to the learned's wing
Yet doth it steal sweet hours from love's delight.
Yet be most proud of that which I compile,
When other petty griefs have done their spite,
Then what could death do if thou shouldst depart,
Makes black night beauteous, and her old face new.
   The worth of that is that which it contains,
   Thou gav'st me thine not to give back again.

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