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XIII. Sweet Loue I erre

Sweet Loue I erre, and doe my error know

Sweet Loue I erre, and doe my error know, As hee that burnes, that burnes, and nourisheth the fire, My griefe doth waxe, and reason lesse doth grow, Yet want I power, to bridle my desire. Content is dead, my ioyes are all distressed, Aye, thus it is, To be with loue oppressed. Content is dead, my ioyes are all distressed. Aye thus it is, To bee with loue oppressed.