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The thirst which in my soul doth rise,
Does ask a drink divine:
But might I of Jove’s Nectar sip,
I would not change for thine.
I sent thee late a rosy wreath.
Not so much honouring thee;
And giving it a hope that there.
It could not wither’d be.
But thou therein did only breathe,
And sent it back to me;
Since when, it looks, and smells, I swear
Not of itself, but thee.
FINIS.
