| No account of thee thou writest, Past although is many a day |
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| He, in whom desire of traffic With thy down, my sweet, shall be |
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| The Wine-seller old to gladden, The Easterly breeze hath come |
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| Fragrance, East Wind, from the pathway Which the fair doth wend, bring thou |
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| All compact of grace and beauty Is my loved one's moonlike face |
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| From the doorway of the winehouse Solace for our pain seek we |
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| Ill we speak not nor inclining Practise to despite, not we |
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| When the Maker the fashion the form Of thy heart-easing eyebrows pourtrayed |
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| Never once her lip of ruby Did we pree; and she is gone |
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| The Universe from end to end, One moment's care unworth it is |
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