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SONNET. XX.

BUt now my Muse toyld with continuall care,
Begins to faint, and slacke her former pace,
Expecting fauour from that heauenly grace,
That maie (in time) her feeble strength repaire.
Till when (sweete youth) th'essence of my soule,
(Thou that dost sit and sing at my hearts griefe.
Thou that dost send thy shepheard no reliefe)
Beholde, these lines; the sonnes of Teares and Dole.
Ah had great Colin chiefe of sheepheards all,
Or gentle Rowland, my professed friend,
Had they thy beautie, or my pennance pend,
Greater had beene thy fame, and lesse my fall:
But since that euerie one cannot be wittie,
Pardon I craue of them, and of thee, pitty.

FINIS.


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