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Where art thou Muse that thou forget'st so long,
One of her feather'd creatures broke away,
How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea,
Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.
Even so, being full of your ne'er-cloying sweetness,
To kiss the tender inward of thy hand,
Sweet beauty hath no name, no holy bower,
And Time that gave doth now his gift confound.
The painful warrior famoused for fight,
That is so proud thy service to despise,
And soon to you, as you to me, then tender'd
That it nor grows with heat, nor drowns with showers.
   If this be error and upon me prov'd,
   To love that well, which thou must leave ere long.

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