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This poem was generated by a computer - just for you!




For feasts of love doth share a part:
Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.
Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.
Time had not scythed all that borrow'd motion seeming owed,
Upon the hours, and times of your desire?
Now, while the world is bent
Who, disciplined, ay, dieted in grace,