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So good luck came, and on my roof did light, Like noiseless snow, or as the dew of night: Not all at once, but gently, as the trees Are by the sunbeams tickled by degrees.

Fly to my mistress, pretty pilfering bee, And say thou bring'st this honey bag from me: When on her lip thou hast thy sweet dew placed, Mark if her tongue but slyly steal a taste. If so, we live; if not, with mournful hum Toll forth my death; next, to my burial come.

Love bade me ask a gift, And I no more did move But this, that I might shift Still with my clothes my love: That favour granted was; Since which, though I love many, Yet so it comes to pass That long I love not any.