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eyes, to weep sith none bemoans your weeping;

Leave off, good muse, to sound the cruel name

Of my love's queen which hath my heart in keeping,

Yet of my love doth make a jesting game!

Long hath my sufferance laboured to inforce

One pearl of pity from her pretty eyes,

Whilst I with restless oceans of remorse

Bedew the banks where my fair Chloris lies,

Where my fair Chloris bathes her tender skin,

And doth triumph to see such rivers fall

From those moist springs, which never dry have been

Since she their honour hath detained in thrall;

And still she scorns one favouring smile to show

Unto those waves proceeding from my woe.