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SONNET DLVII
So oft have I invoked thee for my Muse,
In one of thine, from that which thou departest;
When that mine eye is famish'd for a look,
And beauty slander'd with a bastard shame:
For if you were by my unkindness shaken,
Past reason hunted; and no sooner had,
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
On both sides thus is simple truth suppressed:
In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire,
Might I not then say, 'Now I love you best,'
So flatter I the swart-complexion'd night,
And you in every blessed shape we know.
   Him have I lost; thou hast both him and me:
   To show false Art what beauty was of yore.

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