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And threescore year would make the world away.
To kiss the tender inward of thy hand,
Cuckoo, cuckoo!' O word of fear,
For thou art all, and all things rare,
Most freindship if feigning, most loving mere folly:
Of lands and mansions, theirs in thought assign'd;
My tongue-tied Muse in manners holds her still,
To witness duty, not to show her pride,
Then in the number let me pass untold,
Making his style admired every where.
What is your substance, whereof are you made,
On whom frown'st thou that I do change: