| To an Old Gentlewoman That Painted Her Face |
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| Was never day came on my head |
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| My Spencer, spite is vertues deadly foe |
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| To his mistres, declaring his life only to depend of her lookes |
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| That though he may not possible come or send, yet he lives mindfull of his mistresse in Moscovia |
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| Wearie of long silence, he breakes his mind to his Mistresse |
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| He wisheth his dreames either longer or truer |
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| Travailing the desert of Russia, he complayneth to Eccho |
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| To his friend Edward Dancie, of Deceit |
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| Finding his Mistresse untrue, he exclaimeth thereat |
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