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51

How fast thou hast'st O Spring with sweetest speede
To catch thy waters which before are runne,
And of the greater Rivers welcome woone,
Ere these thy new-borne streames these places feed.
Yet you doe well, lest staying here might breede
Dangerous flouds, your sweetest bankes t'orerunn,
And yet much better my distresse to shunn,
Which maks my tears your swiftest course succeed.
But best you doe when with so hasty flight
You fly my ills, which now my selfe outgoe,
Whose broken heart can testifie such woe,
That so orecharg'd, my life-bloud, wasteth quite.
Sweet Spring then keepe your way be never spent,
And my ill dayes, or griefes, assunder rent.
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