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Sonnet XII.
[Thou, (like the faire-fac'd gold-encouerd booke]
Thou, (like the faire-fac'd gold-encouerd booke,whose lines are stuft with damned heresies)
Dost in thy face beare a celestial looke,
when in thy hart liue hell-borne cruelties.
With poysenous Toades ye cleerest spring's infected
and purest Launes nought worth if ful of staines,
So is faire beauty when true loue's reiected;
when cole-blacke hate within the hart remaines,
Then loue, (my deere) let that be Methry date
to ouer-come the venome of disdaine;
Be pittifull, tread downe this killing hate,
conuert to sugred pleasure, gall-full paine.
O, sith Disdaine is foe vnto thy Faire,
Exile him thence, there let him not repaire.
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