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Whither dost thou whorry me, Bacchus, being full of thee? This way, that way, that way, this, Here and there a fresh love is. That doth like me, this doth please, Thus a thousand mistresses I have now; yet I alone, Having all, enjoy not one. Whorry, carry rapidly.

Would I see lawn, clear as the heaven, and thin? It should be only in my Julia's skin, Which so betrays her blood as we discover The blush of cherries when a lawn's cast over.

When my off'ring next I make, Be thy hand the hallowed cake, And thy breast the altar whence Love may smell the frankincense.

I'm sick of love, O let me lie Under your shades to sleep or die! Either is welcome, so I have Or here my bed, or here my grave.