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Chastest Diana! in the Deserts wilde,
Haue I so long thy truest handmaid beene?
Vpon the rough rocke-ground thine arrowes keene,
Haue I (to make thee crownes) beene gath'ring still
Faire-cheekt Etesia's yealow Cammomill?
And sitting by thee on our flowrie beds
Knit thy torne Buck-stals with well twisted threds,
To be forsaken? O now present be,
If not to saue, yet helpe to ruine me!