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- F Air was the morne, when the faire Queene of love,
Paler for sorrow then her milke white Doue,
For Adons sake, a youngster proud and wilde,
Her stand she takes upon a steepe up hill.
Anon Adonis comes with home and hounds,
Shefilly Queene, with more than loues good will,
Forbad she boy he should not paflle those grounds,
Once (quoth she) did I see a faire sweet youth
Here in these brakes, deepe wounded with a Boate,
Deepe in the thigh a spectacle of rush,
See in my thigh (quoth she) here was the sore,
She shewed hers, he saw more wounds than one,
And bluthing fled, and left her all alone.
8 3
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