English poetry

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Sonnet XXV

HOw long shall this lyke dying lyfe endure,
And know no end of her owne mysery:
But wast and weare away in termes vnsure,
Twixt feare and hope depending doubtfully.
Yet better were attonce to let me die,
And shew the last ensample of your pride:
Then to torment me thus with cruelty,
To proue your powre, which I too wel haue tride.
But yet if in your hardned brest ye hide,
A close intent at last to shew me grace:
Then all the woes and wrecks which I abide,
As meanes of blisse I gladly wil embrace.
And wish that more and greater they might be,
That greater meede at last may turne to mee.

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Poem Sonnet XXV - Edmund Spenser