SIR JOHN SUCKLING
The sweet Philoclea, since she died, Lies by her Pirocles his side, Not by Amphialus.
Some bays, perchance, or myrtle bough For difference crowns the brow Of those kind bouls that were The noble martyrs here. And if that be the only odds (As who can tell?), yc kinder gods, Give me the woman here!
��555 The Constant Lover
UT upon it, I have loved
Three whole days together' And am like to love three more, If it prove fair weather.
Time shall moult away his wings
Ere he shall discover In the whole wide world again
Such a constant lover.
But the spite on 't is, no praise
Is due at all to me. Love with me had made no stays,
Had it any been but she.
Had it any been but she,
And that very face, There had been at least ere this A dozen dozen in her place.
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