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An Elizabethan Ode

At your mercy here I be,
Methinks thee has a curse to bestow.
Perchance love's ghostly torment
Chooseth me as a discontented lover.
And thou knows aught of the melancholy fortune
Which poisons my dreams at night.
This mischance of fate doth make a winter in my soul.
Alas, ne'er more than friends we are.
I'll speak nothing to you, sweet villain,
But shall silently beseech thy gentle favor.
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