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Then live some little while, poor sickening light,
And glad my aching eyes;
Thou wilt not die until the morrow bright
Has seen thy exequies.
Thou wilt not quit me like a thankless one,
Who, when grief closes with the fainting heart,
Doth shape his leave.
I pray thee tarry, then. Alas! thou'rt gone.
Pity it is that in this mood we part.
