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to obtain thee nothing me will stead,

I have a med'cine that shall cure my love.

The powder of her heart dried, when she's dead,

That gold nor honour ne'er had power to move;

Mixed with her tears that ne'er her true love crost,

Nor at fifteen ne'er longed to be a bride;

Boiled with her sighs, in giving up the ghost,

That for her late deceasèd husband died;

Into the same then let a woman breathe,

That being chid did never word reply;

With one thrice married's prayers, that did bequeath

A legacy to stale virginity.

If this receipt have not the power to win me,

Little I'll say, but think the devil's in me!