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| How now, what news from her? | |
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| From her handmaid I return this answer: Till seven years' heat, she shall not behold her face at ample view, but like a cloistress she will veiled walk. All this to a season a brother's dead love. | |
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| O, she that hath a heart of that fine frame, to pay this debt of love but to a brother, how will she love when the rich golden shaft hath killed the flock of all affections else. | |
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| Her sweet perfections to one self king! Away before me to sweet beds of flowers! Love thoughts lie rich when canopied in bowers. | |
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