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Thou art to all lost love the best, The only true plant found, Wherewith young men and maids distres't, And left of love, are crown'd.

When once the lover's rose is dead, Or laid aside forlorn: Then willow-garlands 'bout the head Bedew'd with tears are worn.

When with neglect, the lovers' bane, Poor maids rewarded be, For their love lost, their only gain Is but a wreath from thee.

And underneath thy cooling shade, When weary of the light, The love-spent youth and love-sick maid Come to weep out the night.

Among the myrtles as I walk'd, Love and my sighs thus intertalk'd: Tell me, said I, in deep distress, Where I may find my shepherdess. Thou fool, said Love, know'st thou not this? In everything that's sweet she is.