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SONNET DCCCXLI
How like a winter hath my absence been
When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover
Mine eye my heart thy picture's sight would bar,
Which proves more short than waste or ruining?
For, thou betraying me, I do betray
Where all the treasure of thy lusty days;
Show me your image in some antique book,
Then better'd that the world may see my pleasure:
Yet fear her, O thou minion of her pleasure!
Without all ornament, itself and true,
The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,
But makes antiquity for aye his page;
   O! none, unless this miracle have might,
   All losses are restor'd and sorrows end.

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