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Upon his Mistris sad.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 


18

Upon his Mistris sad.

Melancholy hence, and get
Some peece of earth to be thy seat,
Here the Ayre and nimble fire
Would shoot up to meet desire;
Sullen humor leave her blood,
Mixe not with the purer Flood,
But let pleasures swelling here,
Make a Spring-tide all the yeer.
Love a thousand sweets distilling,
And with pleasure bosomes filling,
Charm all eyes, that none may find us,
Be above, before, behind us:
And while we thy raptures taste,
Compel time it self to stay,
Or by forelock hold him fast,
Least occasion slip away.