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 For if I could match thy rhyme, To the very stars I'd climb; There begin again, and fly Till I reached eternity. But, alas, my Muse is slow, For thy place she flags too low; Yea, the more's her hapless fate, Her short wings were clipt of late; And poor I, her fortune ruing, Am put up myself a mewing. But if I my cage can rid, I'll fly where I never did; And though for her sake I'm crost, Though my best hopes I have lost, And knew she would make my trouble Ten times more than ten times double, I should love and keep her too, Spite of all the world could do. For though, banished from my flocks And confined 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 those sweets the spring-tide yields; Though I may not see those groves, Where the shepherds chaunt their loves, And the lasses more excel Than the sweet-voiced Philomel; Though of all those pleasures past, Nothing now remains at last But Remembrance—poor relief! That more makes than mends my grief: She's my mind's companion still, Maugre envy's evil will; Whence she should be driven too, Were't in mortal's power to do. She doth tell me where to borrow Comfort in the midst of sorrow, Makes the desolatest place