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SONNET DXIV
So oft have I invoked thee for my Muse,
And with his presence grace impiety,
Before these bastard signs of fair were born,
To work my mind, when body's work's expired:
To make of monsters and things indigest
But as the marigold at the sun's eye,
As Philomel in summer's front doth sing,
But I forbid thee one most heinous crime:
But wherefore says she not she is unjust?
Shall you pace forth; your praise shall still find room
Is from the book of honour razed quite,
And make time's spoils despised every where.
   If this be error and upon me prov'd,
   They draw but what they see, know not the heart.

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