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To Nature all that I in rhyme have writ!

And to my company my wit :
Thou, Love, by making me adore
Her who begot this love in me before,
Taught'st me to make as though I gave, when I do

but restore.
To him for whom the passing bell next tolls
I give my physic books; my written rolls
Of moral counsels I to Bedlam give;
My brazen medals unto them which live
In want of bread; to them which pass among

All foreigners, my English tongue :
Thou, Love, by making me love one
Who thinks her friendship a fit portion
For younger lovers, dost my gifts thus disproportion.
Therefore I 'll give no more, but I'll undo
The world by dying, because love dies too.
Then all your beauties will be no more worth
Than gold in mines where none doth draw it forth :
And all your graces no more use shall have

Than a sun-dial in a grave. Thou, Love, taught'st me, by making me Love her who doth neglect both me and thee, To invent and practise this one way to annihilate all


Character of a Bore.

From Donne's Satires.

Towards me did run A thing more strange than on Nile's slime the sun E'er bred, or all which into Noah's ark came; A thing which would have posed Adam to name. Stranger than seven antiquaries' studies— Than Afric's monsters-Guiana's raritiesStranger than strangers. One who for a Dane In the Danes' massacre had sure been slain, If he had lived then; and without help dies When next the 'prentices 'gainst strangers rise. One whom the watch at noon scarce lets go by ; One to whom th' examining justice sure would cry: “Sir, by your priesthood, tell me what you are?' His clothes were strange, though coarse--and black,

though bare ; Sleeveless his jerkin was, and it had been Velvet, but 'twas now-so much ground was seenBecome tuff-taffety; and our children shall See it plain rash awhile, then nought at all. The thing hath travelled, and saith, speaks all tongues ; And only knoweth what to all states belongs. Made of the accents and best phrase of all these, He speaks one language. If strange meats displease, Art can deceive, or hunger force my taste ; But pedants' motley tongue, soldiers' bombast, Mountebanks' drug tongue, nor the terms of law, Are strong enough preparatives to draw Me to bear this. Yet I must be content With his tongue, in his tongue called compliment. ... He names me, and comes to me. I whisper, God ! How have I sinned, that thy wrath's furious rod (This fellow) chooseth me?' He saith : “Sir, I love your judgment--whom do you prefer For the best linguist?' And I sillily Said, that I thought, Calepine's Dictionary. 'Nay, but of men, most sweet sir?'—Beza then, Some Jesuits, and two reverend men Of our two academies, I named. Here He stopt me, and said : ‘Nay, your apostles were Pretty good linguists, and so Panurge was; Yet a poor gentleman all these may pass By travel.' Then, as if he would have sold His tongue, he praised it, and such wonders told, That I was fain to say: 'If you had lived, sir, Time enough to have been interpreter To Babel's bricklayers, sure the tower had stood.' He adds : 'If of court-life you knew the good,

You would leave loneness.' I said : 'Not alone
My loneness is, but Spartans' fashion.
To teach by painting drunkards doth not taste
Now; Aretine's pictures have made few chaste;
No more can princes' courts-though there be few
Better pictures of vice-teach me virtue.'
He, like to a high-stretched lute-string, squeaked : '0

'Tis sweet to talk of kings !''At Westminster,'
Said I, the man that keeps the Abbey-tombs,
And, for his price, doth, with whoever comes,
Of all our Harrys and our Edwards talk,
From king to king, and all their kin can walk :
Your ears shall hear nought but kings—your eyes meet
Kings only—the way to it is King's street.
He smacked, and cried: 'He's base, mechanic, coarse,
So are all your Englishmen in their discourse.
Are not your Frenchmen neat? Mine?-as you see,
I have but one, sir-look, he follows me.
Certes, they are neatly clothed. I of this mind am,
Your only wearing is your grogoram.'
"Not so, sir. I have more. Under this pitch
He would not fly. I chafed him. But as itch
Scratched into smart-and as blunt iron ground
Into an edge hurts worse--so I (fool !) found
Crossing hurt me. To fit my sullenness,
He to another key his style doth dress,
And asks : ‘What news?' I tell him of new plays ;
He takes my hands, and as a still which stays
A semibreve 'twixt each drop, he (niggardly,
As loath to enrich me so) tells many a lie-
More than ten Holinsheds, or Halls, or Stows-
Of trivial household trash he knows. He knows
When the queen frowned or smiled, and he knows what
A subtle statesman may gather from that.
He knows who loves ; whom, and who by poison
Hastes to an office's reversion.
He knows who hath sold his land, and now doth beg
A license, old iron, boots, shoes, and egg.
Shells to transport. Shortly boys shall not play
At spancounter, or blow-point, but shall pay
Toll to some courtier. And-wiser than all us-
He knows what lady is not painted. Thus
He with home-meats cloys me.

One of the earliest poetic allusions to the Copernican system occurs in Donne :

As new Philosophy arrests the sun,

And bids the passive earth about it run. The following is a simile often copied by later poets :

When goodly, like a ship in her full trim,
A swan, so white that you may unto him
Compare all whiteness, but himself to none,
Glided along, and as he glided watched,
And with his arched neck this poor fish catched ;
It moved with state, as if to look upon

Low things it scorned. In 1839, a complete edition of the works of Donne, including sermons, devotions, poems, letters, &c. was published in six volumés, edited by the Rev. Henry Alford, afterwards Dean of Canterbury

JOSEPH HALL. JOSEPH HALL, born at Bristow Park, in Leicestershire, in 1574, and who rose through various church preferments to be bishop of Norwich, is distinguished as a satirical poet, whose works have been commended by Pope and Warton, and often reprinted. His satires, which were published under the title of Virgidemiarum, in 1597-8, refer

to general objects, and present some just pictures His sleeves half hid with elbow pinionings, of the more remarkable anomalies in human As if he meant to fly with linen wings. character : they are also written in a style of

But when I look, and cast mine eyes below,

What monster meets mine eyes in human show? greater vigour and volubility than most of the compositions of this age. His chief defect is

So slender waist with such an abbot's loin,

Did never sober nature sure conjoin. obscurity, arising from remote allusions and ellip

Lik'st a strawn scarecrow in the new-sown field, tical expression. Bishop Hall died in 1656, at the

Reared on some stick, the tender com to shield, age of eighty-two.

Or, if that semblance suit not every deal,

Like a broad shake-fork with a slender steel.
Selections from Hall's Satires.
A gentle squire would gladly entertain

MARSTON-CHURCHYARD-TUBERVILLEInto his house some trencher-chapelain :

Some willing man that might instruct his sons,
And that would stand to good conditions.

Nearly contemporary with Hall's satires were First, that he lie upon the truckle-bed,

those of JOHN MARSTON, the dramatist, known While his young master lieth o'er his head. for his subsequent rivalry and quarrel with Ben Second, that he do, on no default,

Jonson. Marston, in 1598, published a small Ever presume to sit above the salt.

volume, Certayne Satires, and in 1599 The Scourge Third, that he never change his trencher twice. of Villany, &c. He survived till 1634. Little is Fourth, that he use all common courtesies; known of this ' English Aretine,' but all his works Sit bare at meals, and one half rise and wait.

are coarse and licentious. Ben Jonson boasted to Last, that he never his young master beat,

Drummond that he had beaten Marston and taken But he must ask his mother to define

his pistol from him. If he had sometimes taken How many jerks he would his breech should line.

his pen, he would have better served society. All these observed, he could contented be To give five marks and winter livery.

Among the swarm of poets ranking with the

earlier authors of this period, we may note the Seest thou how gaily my young master goes," following as conspicuous in their own times. Vaunting himself upon his rising toes ;

THOMAS CHURCHYARD (1520–1604) wrote about And pranks his hand upon his dagger's side ; seventy volumes in prose and verse. He served And picks his glutted teeth since late noon-tide?

in the army, 'trailed a pike' in the reigns of 'Tis Řuffio : Trow'st thou where he dined to-day?

Henry VIII., Mary, and Elizabeth, and received In sooth I saw him sit with Duke Humphrey. from Elizabeth——whom he had propitiated by Many good welcomes, and much gratis cheer, Keeps he for every straggling cavalier;

complimentary addresses—a pension of eighteenAn open house, haunted with great resort;

pence a day, not paid regularly. Churchyard is Long service mixt with musical disport.t

supposed to be the Palamon of Spenser's Colin Many fair younker with a feathered crest,

Chooses much rather be his shot-free guest,

That sang so long until quite hoarse he grew.
To fare so freely with so little cost,
Than stake his twelvepence to a meaner host.

-GEORGE TUBERVILLE (circa 1530-1594) was Hadst thou not told me, I should surely say secretary to Randolph, Queen Elizabeth's ambasHe touched no meat of all this livelong day; sador at the court of Russia. So early as 1568, For sure methought, yet that was but a guess, he had published songs and sonnets; but some of His eyes seemed sunk for very hollowness, his works—as his Essays and Book of FalconryBut could he have-as I did it mistake

were not published till after his death.—THOMAS So little in his purse, so much upon his back ?

WATSON (circa 1557-1592) was author of HecaSo nothing in his maw? yet seemeth by his belt That his gaunt gut no too much stuffing felt.

tompathia, or Passionate Century of Love (1582), Seest thou how side it hangs beneath his hip?

a series of sonnets of superior elegance and merit; Hunger and heavy iron makes girdles slip.

also Amyntas, 1585, &c.—HENRY CONSTABLE Yet for all that, how stiffly struts he by,

(circa 1560-1612) was author of a great number All trapped in the new-found bravery.

of sonnets, partly published in 1592 under the The nuns of new-won Calais his bonnet lent, title of Diana. Almost every writer of this time In lieu of their so kind a conquerment.

ventured on a sonnet or translation. Some What needed he fetch that from farthest Spain, settled down into dramatists, and as such will His grandame could have lent with lesser pain ? be noticed hereafter ; others became best known Though he perhaps ne'er passed the English shore, Yet fain would counted be a conqueror.

as prose writers. Dr Drake calculates that there

were about two hundred poets in the reign of His hair, French-like, stares on his frighted head, Elizabeth! This is no exaggeration ; but it is to One lock Amazon-like dishevelled, As if he meant to wear a native cord,

the last decade of the century that we must look If chance his fates should him that bane afford.

for its brightest names. All British bare upon the bristled skin, Close notched is his beard, both lip and chin ;

Sonnets by Thomas Watson. His linen collar labyrinthian set,

When May is in his prime, and youthful Spring Whose thousand double turnings never met:

Doth clothe the tree with leaves and ground with

flowers, * This is the portrait of a poor gallant of the days of Elizabeth. And time of year reviveth every thing, In St Paul's Cathedral, then an open public place, there was a And lovely Nature smiles and nothing lowers ; tomb, erroneously supposed to be that of Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, which was the resort of gentlemen upon town in that

Then Philomela most doth strain her breast day who had occasion to look out for a dinner.

When unsuc

With night-complaints, and sits in little rest. cessful in getting an invitation, they were said to dine with Duke This bird's estate I may compare with mine, Humphrey

To whom fond Love doth work such wrongs by day, | An allusion to the church-service to be heard near Duke Humphrey's tomb.

That in the night my heart must needs repine, i Long, or low.

And storm with sighs to ease me as I may ;


Whilst others are becalmed or lie them still,
Or sail secure with tide and wind at will.
And as all those which hear this bird complain,
Conceive in all her tunes a sweet delight,
Without remorse or pitying her pain ;
So she, for whom I wail both day and night,
Doth sport herself in hearing my complaint ;
A just reward for serving such a saint!

Time wasteth years, and months, and hours ;
Time doth consume fame, honour, wit, and strength;
Time kills the greenest herbs and sweetest flowers ;
Time wears out Youth and Beauty's looks at length;
Time doth convey to ground both foe and friend,
And each thing else but Love, which hath no end.
Time maketh every tree to die and rot;
Time turneth oft our pleasure into pain ;
Time causeth wars and wrongs to be forgot ;
Time clears the sky which first hung full of rain ;
Time makes an end of all humane desire,
But only this which sets my heart on fire.
Time turneth into nought each princely state;
Time brings a flood from new-resolved snow;
Time calms the sea where tempest was of late;
Time eats whate'er the moon can see below :
And yet no time prevails in my behoof,
Nor any time can make me cease to love !

From · Farewell to Town.' Thou gallant court, to thee, farewell ! For froward fortune me denies

Now longer near to thee to dwell. I must go live, I wot not where, Nor how to live when I come there. And next, adieu, you gallant dames,

The chief of noble youth's delight!
Untoward fortune now so frames,

That I am banished from your sight,
And, in your stead, against my will,
I must go live with country Gill.
Now next, my gallant youths, farewell ;

My lads that oft have cheered my heart ! My grief of mind no tongue can tell,

To think that I must from you part.
I now must leave you all, alas,
And live with some old lobcock ass !

NICHOLAS BRETON. NICHOLAS BRETON (1558-1624) was a prolific and often happy writer, pastoral, satirical, and humorous. His Works of a Young Wit appeared in 1577; and a succession of small volumes proceeded from his pen ; eight pieces with his name are in England's Helicon-a valuable poetical miscellany published in 1600, including contributions from Sidney, Spenser, Raleigh, Lodge, Marlowe, Watson, Greene, &c. Of Breton, little personally is known, but he is supposed to have been the son of a Captain Nicholas Breton of Tamworth, in Staffordshire, who had an estate at Norton, in Northamptonshire.

A Pastoral.- From · England's Helicon.' On a hill there grows a flower,

Fair befall the dainty sweet ! By that flower there is a bower,

Where the heavenly Muses meet. In that bower there is a chair,

Fringed all about with gold, Where doth sit the fairest fair

That ever eye did yet behold. It is Phillis, fair and bright,

She that is the shepherds' joy, She that Venus did despite,

And did blind her little boy. Who would not this face admire ?

Who would not this saint adore ? Who would not this sight desire,

Though he thought to see no more? O fair eyes, yet let me see

One good look, and I am gone :
Look on me, for I am he,

The poor silly Corydon.
Thou that art the shepherds' queen,

Look upon thy silly swain;
By thy comfort have been seen
Dead men brought to life again.

And now, farewell, thou gallant lute,

With instruments of music's sounds! Recorder, cittern, harp, and flute,

And heavenly descants on sweet grounds. I now must leave you all, indeed, And make some music on a reed ! And now, you stately stamping steeds,

And gallant geldings fair, adieu !
My heavy heart for sorrow bleeds,

To think that I must part with you ;
And on a strawen pannel sit,
And ride some country carting tit!
And now, farewell, both spear and shield,

Caliver, pistol, arquebuss;
See, see, what sighs my heart doth yield,

To think that I must leave you thus;
And lay aside my rapier blade,
And take in hand a ditching spade !
And you, farewell, all gallant games,

Primero and Imperial,
Wherewith I used, with courtly dames,

To pass away the time withál:
I now must learn some country plays
For ale and cakes on holidays !
And now, farewell, each dainty dish,

With sundry sorts of sugared wine !
Farewell, I say, fine flesh and fish,

To please this dainty mouth of mine ! I now, alas, must leave all these, And make good cheer with bread and cheese ! And now, all orders due, farewell !

My table laid when it was noon;
My heavy heart it irks to tell

My dainty dinners all are done :
With leeks and onions, whig and whey,
I must content me as I may.
And farewell all gay garments now,

With jewels rich, of rare device !
Like Robin Hood, I wot not how,

I must go range in woodman's wise ;
Clad in a coat of green or gray,
And glad to get it if I may.
What shall I say, but bid adieu

To every dream of sweet delight.
In place where pleasure never grew,

In dungeon deep of foul despite, I must, ah me! wretch as I may, Go sing the song of wellaway!


Beauty. Like to the clear in highest sphere,

Where all imperial glory shines, Of self-same colour is her hair,

.Whether unfolded or in twines :

Her eyes are sapphires set in snow,

Refining heaven by every wink;
The gods do fear, when as they glow,

And I do tremble when I think.
Her cheeks are like the blushing cloud

That beautifies Aurora's face ;
Or like the silver crimson shroud

That Phoebus' smiling looks doth grace. Her lips are like two budded roses,

Whom ranks of lilies neighbour nigh; Within which bounds she balm incloses,

Apt to entice a deity.
Her neck like to a stately tower,

Where Love himself imprisoned lies,
To watch for glances, every hour,

From her divine and sacred eyes. With orient pearl, with ruby red,

With marble white, with sapphire blue, Her body everywhere is fed,

Yet soft in touch, and sweet in view. Nature herself her shape admires ;

The gods are wounded in her sight; And Love forsakes his heavenly fires,

And at her eyes his brand doth light.

THOMAS LODGE, one of the most graceful and correct of the minor poets and imaginative writers of this period, appeared as an author in 1580. He then published a Defence of Stage Plays in Three Divisions, to which Stephen Gosson replied by a work quaintly styled Plays Confuted in Five Actions. “Gosson speaks of Lodge as 'a vagrant person visited by the heavy hand of God.' Of the nature of this visitation we are not informed, but Lodge seems to have had a very varied life. He was of a respectable family in Lincolnshire, where he was born about 1556, and entered Trinity College, Oxford, as a servitor, under Sir Edward Hobby, in 1573. After leaving college, he is supposed to have been on the stage. But he afterwards joined in the expeditions of Captains Clarke and Cavendish, and wrote his Rosalynde to beguile the time during his voyage to the Canaries. He next appears as a law-student. In his Glaucus and Scilla (1589), Catharos Diogenes (1591), and A Fig for Comus (1595), he styles himself of Lincoln's Inn, Gent. His next work, A Margarite of America (1596), was written, he says, 'in those straits christened by Magellan, in which place to the southward, many wondrous isles, many strange fishes, many monstrous Patagons, withdrew my senses. From the law, Lodge turned to physic. He studied medicine, Wood says, at Avignon, and he practised in London, being much patronised by Roman Catholic families, till his death by the plague in 1625. Lodge wrote several pastoral tales, sonnets, and light satires, besides two dramas; one of them in conjunction with Greene. His poetry is easy and polished, though abounding in conceits and gaudy ornament. His Rosalynde : Euphues Golden Legacie, contains passages of fine description and delicate sentiment, with copies of verses interspersed. From this romantic little tale Shakspeare took the incidents of his As You Like It, following Lodge with remarkable closeness. The great dramatist has been censured for some anachronisms in his exquisite comedy-such as introducing a lioness and palm-tree into his forest of Arden; but he merely copied Lodge, who has the lion, the myrrh-tree, the fig, the citron, and pomegranate. In these romantic and pastoral tales, consistency and credibility were utterly disregarded.

RICHARD BARNFIELD (born about 1570), resembled Lodge in the character of his writings and in the smoothness and elegance of his verse. He was also a graduate of Oxford. His works are - Cynthia, with Certain Sonnets, and the Legend of Cassandra (1595); the Affectionate Shepherd, &c. (1596); the Encomium of Lady Pecunia (1598), &c. But Barnfield is chiefly known from the circumstance, that some of his pieces were ascribed to Shakspeare, in a volume entitled ' The Passionate Pilgrim, by W. Shakespeare' (1599). The use of Shakspeare's name was a trick of the bookseller. The small volume contains two of Shakspeare's Sonnets, some verses taken from his Love's Labour's Losť (published the year before), some pieces known to be by Marlowe and Raleigh, and others taken from Barnfield's Encomium of Lady Pecunia.

The following three extracts are from Lodge :

Rosalind's Madrigal. Love in my bosom, like a bee,

Doth suck his sweet ;
Now with his wings he plays with me,

Now with his feet.
Within mine eyes he makes his nest,
His bed amidst my tender breast;
My kisses are his daily feast,
And yet he robs me of my rest :

Ah, wanton, will ye?
And if I sleep, then percheth he

With pretty flight,
And makes his pillow of my knee,

The livelong night.
Strike I my lute, he tunes the string;
He music plays if so I sing ;
He lends me every lovely thing,
Yet cruel he my heart doth sting:

Whist, wanton, still ye. Else I with roses every day

Will whip you hence, And bind you, when you long to play,

For your offence;
I'll shut mine eyes to keep you in ;
I'll make you fast it for your sin ;
I'll count your power not worth a pin ;
Alas! what hereby shall I win,

If he gainsay me?
What if I beat the wanton boy

With many a rod ?
He will repay me with annoy,

Because a god.
Then sit thou safely on my knee,
And let thy bower my bosom be ;
Lurk in mine eyes, I like of thee,
O Cupid ! so thou pity me,

Spare not, but play thee.


Turn I my looks unto the skies,
Love with his arrows wounds mine eyes ;
If so I gaze upon the ground,

The whole of the pieces in The Passionate PilLove then in every flower is found;

grim were, as we have said, ascribed to ShakSearch I the shade to fly my pain,

speare. Among them was the fine poem, The PasLove meets me in the shade again ;

sionate Shepherd to his Love, with the answer, Want I to walk in secret grove,

sometimes called The Nymph's Reply. The first E'en there I meet with sacred love;

is assigned to CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE, in the If so I bathe me in the spring,

poetical miscellany, England's Helicon; and the E'en on the brink I hear him sing ;

second appears in the same volume with the signaIf so I meditate alone,

ture of Ignoto,' used in other instances to intimate He will be partner of my moan ;

that the author was unknown.

To one copy, If so I mourn, he weeps with me;

however, the initials of Sir Walter Raleigh are And where I am, there will he be !

attached ; and we have the explicit statement of The following two short poems—often printed written long before it was printed—that the pieces

Izaak Walton in his Complete Angler (1653)—but as one-exhibit Barnfield's tone of sentiment and

were really by Marlowe and Raleigh. versification : As it fell upon a day,

The Passionate Shepherd to his Love.By Marlowe. In the merry month of May, Sitting in a pleasant shade,

Come live with me, and be my love, Which a grove of myrtles made;

And we will all the pleasures prove Beasts did leap, and birds did sing,

That valleys, groves, and hills and fields, Trees did grow, and plants did spring ;

Woods or steepy mountains yields.
Everything did banish moan,

And we will sit upon the rocks,
Save the nightingale alone ;

Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks,
She, poor bird, as all forlorn,
Leaned her breast up-till a thorn,

By shallow rivers, to whose falls

Melodious birds sing madrigals.
And there sung the dolefullst ditty,
That to hear it was great pity.

And I will make thee beds of roses,
Fie, fie, fie,' now would she cry;

And a thousand fragrant posies ;
"Teru, teru,' by and by ;

A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
That, to hear her so complain,

Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle :
Scarce I could from tears refrain;
For her griefs, so lively shewn,

A gown made of the finest wool,
Made me think upon mine own.

Which from our pretty lambs we pull ;
Ah thought I-thou mourn'st in vain ;

Fair lined slippers for the cold,
None takes pity on thy pain :

With buckles of the purest gold :
Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee;
Ruthless bears, they will not cheer thee.

A belt of straw and ivy buds,
King Pandion, he is dead;

With coral clasps and amber studs :
All thy friends are lapped in lead ;

And if these pleasures may thee move,
All thy fellow-birds do sing,

Come live with me, and be my love.
Careless of thy sorrowing !

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing,

For thy delight, each May-morning :
Whilst as fickle Fortune smiled,

If these delights thy mind may move,
Thou and I were both beguiled.

Then live with me, and be my love.
Every one that flatters thee
Is no friend in misery.

The Nymph's Reply.-By Raleigh.
Words are easy, like the wind ;
Faithful friends are hard to find.

If all the world and love were young,
Every man will be thy friend

And truth in every shepherd's tongue,
Whilst thou hast wherewith to spend;

These pretty pleasures might me move
But, if store of crowns be scant,

To live with thee, and be thy love.
No man will supply thy want.
If that one be prodigal,

But Time drives flocks from field to fold,
Bountiful they will him call;

When rivers rage and rocks grow cold ;
And with such-like flattering,

And Philomel becometh dumb,
'Pity but he were a king.'

The rest complain of cares to come.
It he be addict to vice,

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields
Quickly him they will entice;

To wayward winter reckoning yields;
But if fortune once do frown,
Then farewell his great renown!

A honey tongue-a heart of gall,

Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.
They that fawned on him before
Use his company no more.

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
He that is thy friend indeed,

Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies,
He will help thee in thy need;

Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten,
If thou sorrow, he will weep;

In folly ripe, in reason rotten.
If thou wake, he cannot sleep :
Thus, of every grief in heart,

Thy belt of straw and ivy buds,
He with thee doth bear a part.

Thy coral clasps and amber studs ;
These are certain signs to know

All these in me no means can move
Faithful friend from flattering foe.

To come to thee, and be thy love.

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