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Deare cherish this, and with it my soules will,
Nor for it ran away doe it abuse:
Alas it left (poore me) your brest to choose,
As the blest shrine, where it would harbour still.
Then favour shew, and not unkindly kill
The heart which fled to you, but doe excuse
That which for better did the wurse refuse;
And pleas'd Ile be, though heartlesse my lyfe spill.
But if you will bee kinde, and just indeed,
Send me your heart, which in mine's place shall feede
On faithfull love to your devotion bound,
There shall it see the sacrifices made
Of pure and spottlesse Love, which shall not fade,
While soule, and body are together found.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
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