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If thou ask me, dear, wherefore I do write of thee no more, I must answer, sweet, thy part Less is here than in my heart.

Fill me my wine in crystal; thus, and thus I see't in's puris naturalibus: Unmix'd. I love to have it smirk and shine; 'Tis sin I know, 'tis sin to throttle wine. What madman's he, that when it sparkles so, Will cool his flames or quench his fires with snow?

Jealous girls these sometimes were, While they liv'd or lasted here: Turn'd to flowers, still they be Yellow, mark'd for jealousy.

To fetch me wine my Lucia went, Bearing a crystal continent: But, making haste, it came to pass She brake in two the purer glass, Then smil'd, and sweetly chid her speed; So with a blush beshrew'd the deed. Continent, holder.