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Sonnet XXIII.
[My lyues preseruer, hope of my harts blisse]
My lyues preseruer, hope of my harts blisse,when shall I know the doome of life or death?
Hells fearefull torments easier are then this
soules agonie, wherein I now doe breath,
If thou would'st looke, this my teare-stayned face,
dreery, and wan, far diffring from it was,
VVould well reueale my most tormentfull case
and shewe thy faire, my griefe as in a glasse:
Looke as a Deere late wounded very sore,
among the Heard full heauely dooth feede,
So do I lyue: expecting euermore,
when as my wounded hart shold cease to bleede:
How patient then would I endure the smart,
Of pitchy-countnanc'd Deaths dead-doing dart.
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