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[Phæbus farewell, a sweeter Saint I serve]

Phæbus farewell, a sweeter Saint I serve,
The high conceits thy heav'nly wisedomes breed
My thoughts forget: my thoughts, which never swerve
From her, in whome is sowne their freedomes seede,
And in whose eyes my dayly doome I reede.
Phæbus farewell, a sweeter Saint I serve.
Thou art farre off, thy kingdome is above:
She heav'n on earth with beauties doth preserve.
Thy beames I like, but her cleare rayes I love:
Thy force I feare, her force I still do prove.
Phæbus yeelde up thy title in my minde.
She doth possesse, thy Image is defaste,
But if thy rage some brave revenge will finde,

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On her, who hath in me thy temple raste,
Employ thy might, that she my fires may taste.
And how much more her worth surmounteth thee,
Make her as much more base by loving me.