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Sonnet LXXXI
Fayre is my loue, when her fayre golden heares,
With the loose wynd ye wauing chance to marke:
Fayre when the rose in her red cheekes appeares,
Or in her eyes the fyre of loue does sparke.
Fayre when her brest lyke a rich laden barke,
With pretious merchandize she forth doth lay:
Fayre whe[n] that cloud of pryde, which oft doth dark
Her goodly light with smiles she driues away.
But fayrest she, when so she doth display,
The gate with pearles and rubyes richly dight:
Throgh which her words so wise do make their way
To beare the message of her gentle spright,
The rest be works of natures wonderment,
But this the worke of harts astonishment.
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- Sonnet XLII THe loue which me so cruelly tormenteth, So pleasing is in my extreamest paine: That all the more my sorrow it augmenteth, The more I loue and doe embrace my bane. Ne doe I wish (for wishing were but vaine) To be acquit fro my continuall smart: But ioy her thrall for euer to remayne, […]...
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