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- A LOVER'S COMPLAINT
"Father," she says, "though in me you behold
The injury of many a blasting hour,
Let it not tell your judgement I am old;
Not age, but sorrow, over me hath power:
I might as yet have been a spreading flower,
Fresh to myself, if I had self-applied
Love to myself, and to no love beside.
"But, woe is me! too early I attended
A youthful suit—it was to gain my grace—
Of one by nature’s outwards so commended,
That maidens’ eyes stuck over all his face:
Love lackt a dwelling, and made him her place;
And when in his fair parts she did abide,
She was new lodged, and newly deified.
8
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