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Since to the country first I came I have lost my former flame: And, methinks, I not inherit, As I did, my ravish'd spirit. If I write a verse or two, 'Tis with very much ado; In regard I want that wine Which should conjure up a line. Yet, though now of Muse bereft, I have still the manners left For to thank you, noble sir, For those gifts you do confer Upon him who only can Be in prose a grateful man.

I could never love indeed; Never see mine own heart bleed: Never crucify my life, Or for widow, maid, or wife.

I could never seek to please One or many mistresses: Never like their lips to swear Oil of roses still smelt there.

I could never break my sleep, Fold mine arms, sob, sigh, or weep: