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Sonnet XXVI.
[The loue-hurt hart which Tyrant Cupid wounds]
The loue-hurt hart which Tyrant Cupid wounds,proudly insulting o're his conquer'd pray,
Doth bleede a fresh where pleasure most abounds,
for mirth and mourning alwayes make a fray.
Looke as a Bird sore bruzed with a blowe,
(lately deuiding notes most sweetly singing)
To heare her fellowes how in tunes they flowe,
doth droope & pine, as though her knel were ringing,
The heauie-thoughted Prys'ner full of doubt,
dolefully sitting in a close-bar'd cage,
Is halfe contented, till hee looketh out,
he sees each free, then stormes hee in a rage;
The sight of pleasure trebleth euery payne,
As small Brooks swell and are inrag'd with rayne.
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