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Thou art a plant sprung up to wither never, But like a laurel to grow green for ever.

Men say y'are fair, and fair ye are, 'tis true; But, hark! we praise the painter now, not you.

At draw-gloves we'll play, And prithee let's lay A wager, and let it be this: Who first to the sum Of twenty shall come, Shall have for his winning a kiss. Draw-gloves, a game of talking by the fingers.

Charms, that call down the moon from out her sphere, On this sick youth work your enchantments here: Bind up his senses with your numbers so As to entrance his pain, or cure his woe. Fall gently, gently, and a while him keep Lost in the civil wilderness of sleep: That done, then let him, dispossessed of pain, Like to a slumb'ring bride, awake again.