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Permit me, Julia, now to go away; Or by thy love decree me here to stay. If thou wilt say that I shall live with thee, Here shall my endless tabernacle be: If not, as banish'd, I will live alone There where no language ever yet was known.

Love-sick I am, and must endure A desperate grief, that finds no cure. Ah me! I try; and trying, prove No herbs have power to cure love. Only one sovereign salve I know, And that is death, the end of woe.

Though a wise man all pressures can sustain, His virtue still is sensible of pain: Large shoulders though he has, and well can bear, He feels when packs do pinch him, and the where.

And cruel maid, because I see You scornful of my love and me,