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- # SHAKESPEARES.
More sharpe to me then spurring to his side,
For that same grone doth put this in my mind,
My greefe lies onward and my joy behind.
51
Thus can my love excuse the flow offence,
Of my dull bearer, when from thee I speed,
From where thou art, why should I halt me thence,
Till I returne of posting is not need.
O what excuse will my poore beaft then find,
When swift extremity can seeme but flow,
Then should I spurre though mounted on the wind,
In winged speed no motion shall I know,
Then can no horse with my desire keepe pace,
Therefore desire (of perfects love being made)
Shall naigh noe dull flesh in his fiery race,
But love, for love, thus shall excuse my iade,
Since from thee going, he went wilfull flow,
Towards thee ile run, and giue him leave to goe.
52
So am I as the rich whose bleffed key,
Can bring him to his sweet vp-locked treasure,
The which he will not eury hower furuay,
For blunting the fine point of feldome pleasure.
Therefore are feafts so sollemne and so rare,
Since fildom comming in the long yeare set,
Like stones of worth they thinly placed are,
Or captaine lewells in the carconet.
So is the time that keeps you as my cheft,
Or as the ward-robe which the robe doth hide,
To make some special instant special bleft,
By new unfouling his imprison’d pride.
Bleffed are you whose worthinesse giues skope,
Being had to tryumph, being lackt to hope.
53
VV Hat is your substance, whereof are you made,
That millions of strange shaddowes on you tend?
Since
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