| Here lies kind Tom, thrust out of door |
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| On a Dream |
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| Caelia is gone, and now sit I |
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| A Round |
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| Amour |
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| Look as a bough cut lately from the rind |
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| Sonnet |
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| On a Fair Lady's Yellow Hair, Powdered with White |
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| Shall I love again, and try |
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| Deep are the wounds which strike a virtuous name |
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