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On his Muse
(From the Shepherd's hunting)
By George Wither
......
For though banished from my flocks
And confin'ed within these rocks,
Here I waste away the light,
And consume the sullen night,
She doth for my comfort stay
And keeps many cares away,
Though I miss the flowery fields,
With these fruits the spring-tide yields,
Though I may not see those groves
Where the Shepherds chaunt their loves, 10
And the Lasses more excel
D
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