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Tixall Poetry.
Laugh at my woes, and though I ever mourne;
Love surfets with reward, his nurse is scorne.
Love surfets with reward, his nurse is scorne.
V.
The Power of Love.
Att the sight of my Phillis through every part
A spring-tide of ioy doth flow to my hart,
Which quickens each pulse, and swels every vaine,
Yet all my delights are still mingled with paine.
A spring-tide of ioy doth flow to my hart,
Which quickens each pulse, and swels every vaine,
Yet all my delights are still mingled with paine.
Soe strange a distemper sure love cannot bring,
To my knowledge love was a quieter thing,
Soe gentle, and tame, that it never was knowne
Soe much as to wake me when I lay alone.
To my knowledge love was a quieter thing,
Soe gentle, and tame, that it never was knowne
Soe much as to wake me when I lay alone.
But the boy is much grown, and soe alter'd of late,
He becomes a more furious passion then hate:
He becomes a more furious passion then hate:
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