You that pine in long desire, helpe to cry. Come Loue, come Loue, quench this burning fire. Least through thy wound I die. 2 Hope that tyres with vaine delay, euer cryes Come loue, come loue, howers and yeares decay, In time loues treasure lyes. 3 All the day, and all the night still I call Come loue, come loue, but my deare delight, yealds no releefe at all. 4 Her vnkindnesse scornes my moane, that still shrykes Come loue, come loue, beauty pent alone dyes in her owne dislikes.
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