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SONNET DCXXXIV
My glass shall not persuade me I am old,
Distill'd from limbecks foul as hell within,
Do I not think on thee, when I forgot
Although in me each part will be forgotten.
For all that beauty that doth cover thee,
Where all the treasure of thy lusty days;
Yourself again, after yourself's decease,
I make my love engrafted, to this store:
The sea, all water, yet receives rain still,
All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood,
The mountain or the sea, the day or night:
Though words come hindmost, holds his rank before.
   Finding the first conceit of love there bred,
   Since what he owes thee, thou thyself dost pay.

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