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SONNET CCCLXXVIII
Who will believe my verse in time to come,
Though absence seem'd my flame to qualify,
Give warning to the world that I am fled
Which hides your life, and shows not half your parts.
Have I not seen dwellers on form and favour
Where all the treasure of thy lusty days;
I see their antique pen would have express'd
That heaven's air in this huge rondure hems.
Your monument shall be my gentle verse,
Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen;
Where wasteful Time debateth with decay
Nor it, nor no remembrance what it was:
   And all in war with Time for love of you,
   Kill me with spites yet we must not be foes.

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