Who is Silvia? What is she?
That all our swains commend her?
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Like as, to make our appetite more keen,
With eager compounds we our palate urge;
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Were't aught to me I bore the canopy,
With my extern the outward honouring,
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Accuse me thus: that I have scanted all,
Wherein I should your great deserts repay,
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If thy soul check thee that I come so near,
Swear to thy blind soul that I was thy Will,
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My tongue-tied Muse in manners holds her still,
While comments of your praise richly compiled,
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Was it the proud full sail of his great verse,
Bound for the prize of all too precious you,
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Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid,
My verse alone had all thy gentle grace;
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Or I shall live your epitaph to make,
Or you survive when I in earth am rotten,
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O! call not me to justify the wrong
That thy unkindness lays upon my heart;
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Canst thou, O cruel! say I love thee not,
When I against myself with thee partake?
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Why is my verse so barren of new pride,
So far from variation or quick change?
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I grant thou wert not married to my Muse,
And therefore mayst without attaint o'erlook
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So shall I live, supposing thou art true,
Like a deceived husband; so love's face
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IT was a lording's daughter, the fairest one of three,
That liked of her master as well as well might be,
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Thy glass will show thee how thy beauties wear,
Thy dial how thy precious minutes waste;
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So oft have I invoked thee for my Muse,
And found such fair assistance in my verse
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How like a winter hath my absence been
From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!
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The forward violet thus did I chide:
Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that smells,
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If my dear love were but the child of state,
It might for Fortune's bastard be unfathered,
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Thou art as tyrannous, so as thou art,
As those whose beauties proudly make them cruel;
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Beshrew that heart that makes my heart to groan
For that deep wound it gives my friend and me!
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When thou shalt be dispos'd to set me light,
And place my merit in the eye of scorn,
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Some say thy fault is youth, some wantonness;
Some say thy grace is youth and gentle sport;
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Or whether doth my mind, being crowned with you,
Drink up the monarch's plague, this flattery?
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Thy gift, thy tables, are within my brain
Full charactered with lasting memory,
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WESTMORELAND. O that we now had here
But one ten thousand of those men in England
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But do thy worst to steal thyself away,
For term of life thou art assured mine;
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'Tis better to be vile than vile esteemed,
When not to be receives reproach of being;
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How oft when thou, my music, music play'st,
Upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds
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