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Twice has Pudica been a bride, and led By holy Hymen to the nuptial bed. Two youths she's known thrice two, and twice three years; Yet not a lily from the bed appears: Nor will; for why, Pudica this may know, Trees never bear unless they first do blow.

These springs were maidens once that lov'd, But lost to that they most approv'd: My story tells by Love they were Turn'd to these springs which we see here; The pretty whimpering that they make, When of the banks their leave they take, Tells ye but this, they are the same, In nothing chang'd but in their name.

My wooing's ended: now my wedding's near When gloves are giving, gilded be you there.

'Tis heresy in others: in your face That scar's no schism, but the sign of grace.