Some yet not borne surueying lines of mine,
Shall enuie with a sigh, the eyes that view'd
Those beauties with my bloud so oft imbrude,
The which by me in many a part do shine.
Those reliques then of this turmoil'd engine,
Which for thy fauour haue so long pursude,
Then after death will make my fortune rued,
And thee despited that didst make me pine.
Ah, that thou should'st, to wracke so many hearts,
Exceed in all excellencies, but loue!
That maske of rigour from thy mind remoue,
And then thou art accomplish'd in all parts:
Then shall thy fame ore all vntainted flie,
Thou in my lines, and I shall liue in thee.
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