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[Do not disdaine, ô streight up raised Pine]
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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24

[Do not disdaine, ô streight up raised Pine]

Do not disdaine, ô streight up raised Pine
That wounding thee, my thoughtes in thee I grave:
Since that my thoughtes, as streight as streightnes thine
No smaller wound, alas! farr deeper have.
Deeper engrav'd, which salve nor time can save,
Giv'ne to my harte, by my fore wounded eyne:
Thus cruell to my selfe how canst thou crave
My inward hurte should spare thy outward rine?
Yet still faire tree, lifte up thy stately line,
Live long, and long witnesse my chosen smarte,
Which barde desires, (barde by my selfe) imparte

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And in this growing barke growe verses myne.
My harte my worde, my worde hath giv'ne my harte.
The giver giv'n from gifte shall never parte.