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art nor force can unto pity move

Her stony heart that makes my heart to pant;

No pleading passions of my extreme love

Can mollify her mind of adamant.

Ah cruel sex, and foe to all mankind,

Either you love or else you hate too much!

A glist'ring show of gold in you we find,

And yet you prove but copper in the touch.

But why, O why, do I so far digress?

Nature you made of pure and fairest mould,

The pomp and glory of man to depress,

And as your slaves in thraldom them to hold;

Which by experience now too well I prove,

There is no pain unto the pains of love.