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O King that thou knew'st I lov'd thee, how I lov'd thee, and where, O King, I barrel up thy beauty.
Shall then that thing that honours thee? How miserable a thing soever, yet a thing still; And though a thing of nothing, thy thing ever.
VVhen e're it be, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 day I'll dye with Ringing. And there's the resolution of a Lover.
A goodly resolution sure I take it. He is 〈◊〉〈◊〉, or moop'd, or his brains 〈◊〉〈◊〉, Could he find no body to fall in Love with but the King, the good old 〈◊〉〈◊〉, to doat upon him too? Stay, now I remember, what the Fat Woman warn'd me, bad me remember, and look to him to: I'll hang if she have not a hand in this: he's conjur'd, go after him, I pity the poor Rascal; In the mean time I'll wait occasion to work upon the Prince.