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Two loves I have of comfort and despair,
Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving:
That she might think me some untutor'd youth,
Have from the forests shook three summers' pride,
If I might teach thee wit, better it were,
And to the painted banquet bids my heart;
And summer's green all girded up in sheaves,
Will sourly leave her till he have prevail'd?
Ah! yet doth beauty like a dial-hand,
That thou among the wastes of time must go,
Whoe'er keeps me, let my heart be his guard;
Which, rank of goodness, would by ill be cur'd;
   'I hate', from hate away she threw,
   As, thou being mine, mine is thy good report.

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