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[When Love puft up with rage of hy disdaine]
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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[When Love puft up with rage of hy disdaine]

When Love puft up with rage of hy disdaine,
Resolv'd to make me patterne of his might,
Like foe, whose wits inclin'd to deadly spite,
Would often kill to breed more feeling paine.
He would not arm'd with beautie, only raigne
On those affectes which easily yeeld to sight,
But vertue sets so high, that reasons light,
For all his strife can onlie bondage gaine.
So that I live to pay a mortall fee,
Dead palsie sicke of all my chiefest parts:
Like those whom dreames make uglie monsters see,
And can crie helpe with nought but grones and starts:
Longing to have, having no wit to wish,
To starving minds such is God Cupids dish.