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- # SHAKESPEARES
Within be fed, without be rich no more,
So shalt thou feed on death, that feeds on men,
And death once dead, there’s no more dying then.
147
My loue is as a feauer longing still,
For that which longer nurseth the disease,
Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,
Th’vnecretaine sicklie appetite to please:
My reason the Phission to my loue,
Angry that his prescriptions are not kept
Hath left me, and I desperate now approve,
Desire is death, which Phisick did except,
Past cure I am, now Reason is past care,
And frantick madde with euer-more vneft,
My thoughts and my discourse as mad mens are,
At randon from the truth vainely expreft,
For I haue sworne thee faire, and thought thee bright,
Who art as black as hell, as darke as night.
148
O Me! what eyes hath loue put in my head,
Which haue no correspondence with true sight,
Or if they haue, where is my judgment fled,
That censures falsely what they see aright?
If that be faire whereon my false eyes dote,
What meanes the world to say it is not so?
If it be not, then loue doth well denote,
Loues eye is not so true as all measmo,
How can it? O how can loues eye be true,
That is so vext with watching and with teares?
No maruaile then though I mistake my view,
The sunne it felse sees not, till heauen cleeres,
O cunning loue, with teares thou keepst me blinde,
Least eyes well seeing thy foule faults should finde.
149
C Anst thou O cruell, say I loue thee not,
When I against my felse with thee pertake:
Doe
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