1 Since shee, eu'n shee, for whom I liu'd, Sweet she by Fate from me is torne, Why am not I of sence depriu'd, Forgetting I was euer borne ? Why should I languish hating light ? Better to sleepe an endlesse night. 2 Be't eyther true or aptly fain'd, That some of Lethes water write, 'Tis their best med'cine that are pain'd, All thought to loose of past delight. O would my anguish vanish so ? Happy are they that neyther know.
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