1 Vaile loue mine eyes, O hide from me The plagues that charge the curious minde : If beauty priuate will not be, Suffice it yet that she proues kinde. Who can vsurp heau'ns light alone ? Stars were not made to shine on one. 2 Griefes past recure fooles try to heale, That greater harmes on lesse inflict : The pure offend by too much zeale, Affection should not be too strict. Hee that a true embrace will finde, To beauties faults must still be blinde.
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