15 lines
640 B
Text
15 lines
640 B
Text
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With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies!
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How silently, and with how wan a face!
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What, may it be that even in heav'nly place
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That busy archer his sharp arrows tries!
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Sure, if that long-with love-acquainted eyes
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Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case,
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I read it in thy looks; thy languish'd grace
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To me, that feel the like, thy state descries.
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Then, ev'n of fellowship, O Moon, tell me,
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Is constant love deem'd there but want of wit?
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Are beauties there as proud as here they be?
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Do they above love to be lov'd, and yet
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Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess?
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Do they call virtue there ungratefulness?
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