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To one that said his Mistris was old.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

To one that said his Mistris was old.

Tell me not Time hath plaid the Thief
Upon her beauty, my belief
Might have been mock'd, and I had been
An Heretick, if I had not seen,
My Mistris is still fair to me,
And now I all those graces see
That did adorn her Virgin brow;
Her eye hath the same flame in't now,

17

To kill or save, the Chymists fire
Equally burns; so my desire:
Not any Rose-bud lesse within
Her cheek, the same snow on her chin:
Her voice that heavenly musick bears,
First charm'd my soul, and in my eares
Did leave it trembling, her lips are
The self same lovely Twinnes they were:
After so many yeers I misse
No Flower in all my Paradise.
Time, I despise thy rage, and thee,
Theeves do not alwaies thrive, I see.