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 Pray, hurt him not, though he be dead, He knows well who do love him, And who with green turfs rear his head, And who do rudely move him. He's soft and tender (pray take heed); With bands of cowslips bind him, And bring him home; but 'tis decreed That I shall never find him.

I heard ye could cool heat, and came With hope you would allay the same; Thrice I have wash'd but feel no cold, Nor find that true which was foretold. Methinks, like mine, your pulses beat And labour with unequal heat; Cure, cure yourselves, for I descry Ye boil with love as well as I.

Tell if thou canst, and truly, whence doth come This camphor, storax, spikenard, galbanum; These musks, these ambers, and those other smells, Sweet as the vestry of the oracles. I'll tell thee: while my Julia did unlace Her silken bodice but a breathing space, The passive air such odour then assum'd, As when to Jove great Juno goes perfum'd, Whose pure immortal body doth transmit A scent that fills both heaven and earth with it.