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I should consume to nought,
Through thought
Of thy fair shining eye;
Thy cheeks, thy pleasing smiles,
The wiles,
That forced my heart to die:
Thy grace, thy face, the part
Where art
Stands gazing still to see;
The wondrous gifts and power,
Each hour,
That hath bewitchèd me.
T. L., Gent.
