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To print our poems, the propulsive cause Is fame—the breath of popular applause.

Ye silent shades, whose each tree here Some relique of a saint doth wear, Who, for some sweetheart's sake, did prove The fire and martyrdom of love: Here is the legend of those saints That died for love, and their complaints: Their wounded hearts and names we find Encarv'd upon the leaves and rind. Give way, give way to me, who come Scorch'd with the self-same martyrdom: And have deserv'd as much (love knows) As to be canonis'd 'mongst those Whose deeds and deaths here written are Within your greeny calendar: By all those virgins' fillets hung Upon your boughs, and requiems sung For saints and souls departed hence (Here honour'd still with frankincense); By all those tears that have been shed, As a drink-offering to the dead; By all those true love-knots that be With mottoes carv'd on every tree; By sweet Saint Phyllis pity me: