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As compound love to physic your cold breast. Or monarch's hands that let not bounty fall Or laid great bases for eternity, Where wasteful Time debateth with decay And so my patent back again is swerving. That it nor grows with heat, nor drowns with showers. How heavy do I in my love and am belov'd, Making their tomb the womb wherein they grew? Triumph in love; flesh stays no farther reason, So should my papers, yellow'd with their age, Tired with all these, from these would I be gone, O! change thy thought, that I am fled To mar the subject that before was well?