Wit A Sporting In a pleasant Grove Of New Fancies | ||
On Love.
I held Loves head vvhile it did ake,And so it chanced to be
The cruel pain did him forsake,
And forthvvith came to me,
Ah me, how shal my grief be still'd,
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One like to me who must be kild
For being too too kinde.
Wit A Sporting In a pleasant Grove Of New Fancies | ||