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The louer complaineth that deadlie sicknesse can not helpe his affeccion.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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The louer complaineth that deadlie sicknesse can not helpe his affeccion.

The enmy of life, decayer of all kinde,
That with his cold wythers away the grene:
This other night, me in my bed did finde:
And offerd me to ryd my feuer clene.
And I did graunt: so did dispayre me blinde.
He drew his bow, with arrowes sharpe and kene:
And strake the place, where loue had hit before:
And draue the first dart deper more and more.