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HEr fayre inflaming eyes, chiefe authors of my cares,
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I prai'd in humblest wife, With grace to view my teares: They be-held me broad a-wake, But a-
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lasse no ruth would take.
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BASSVS.
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2
Her lips with kisses rich,
And words of fayre delight,
I fayrely did beseech
To pitty my sad plight:
But a voyce from them brake forth
As a whirle-winde from the North.
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Then to her hands I fled,
That can giue heart and all,
To them I long did plead,
And loud for pitty call:
But alas they put mee off,
With a touch worse then a scoffe.
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So backe I straight return'd,
And at her breast I knock'd;
Where long in vaine I mourn'd,
Her heart so fast was lock'd;
Not a word could passage finde,
For a Rocke inclos'd her minde.
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Then downe my pray'rs made way
To those most comely parts,
That make her flye or stay,
As they affect deserts:
But her angry feete thus mou'd
Fled with all the parts I lou'd.
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Yet fled they not so fast
As her enraged minde:
Still did I after haste,
Still was I left behinde,
Till I found 'twas to no end
With a Spirit to contend.