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leaden brain, which censur'st what I write,

And sayst my lines be dull and do not move,

I marvel not thou feel'st not my delight,

Which never felt'st my fiery touch of love;

But thou whose pen hath like a packhorse served,

Whose stomach unto gall hath turned thy food,

Whose senses like poor prisoners, hunger-starved

Whose grief hath parched thy body, dried thy blood;

Thou which hast scornèd life and hated death,

And in a moment, mad, sober, glad, and sorry;

Thou which hast banned thy thoughts and curst thy birth

With thousand plagues more than in purgatory;

Thou thus whose spirit love in his fire refines,

Come thou and read, admire, applaud my lines!