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In th' Ilands Rode the Swain now moares his Boat
Vnto a Willow (lest it outwards float)
And with a rude embracement taking vp
The Maid (more faire then

Hebe.

She that fill'd the cup

Of the great Thunderer, wounding with her eyes
More hearts then all the troopes of Deities.)
He wades to shore, and sets her on the sand,
That gently yeelded when her foot should land.

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Where bubling waters through the pibbles fleet,
As if they stroue to kisse her slender feet.