tinypoem

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And mine I pour your ocean all among:
He preach'd pure maid, and praised cold chastity.
Excusing thy sins more than thy sins are;
Then, if for my sake lay on me this cross:
But he that writes of you,
To side this title is impannelled
I, sick withal, the help of bath desired,
By their rank thoughts, my deeds to pry,
To every place at once, and, nowhere fix'd,
Till whatsoever star that ushers in the even,