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189
The tinder.
Of what mould did nature frame me?Or was it her intent to shame me,
That no woman can come neere me
Faire, but her I court to heare me?
Sure that mistris to whose beauty.
First I paid a lovers duty.
Burnt in rage my heart to tinder.
That nor prayers, nor teares can hinder.
But where ever I doe turne me,
Every sparke let fall doth burne me.
Women since you thus inflame me,
Flint and steele Il'e ever name yee.
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