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Rh This secret see, Though you can make That heart to bleed, yours ne'er will ache For me.

What I fancy I approve, No dislike there is in love. Be my mistress short or tall, And distorted therewithal: Be she likewise one of those That an acre hath of nose: Be her forehead and her eyes Full of incongruities: Be her cheeks so shallow too As to show her tongue wag through; Be her lips ill hung or set, And her grinders black as jet: Has she thin hair, hath she none, She's to me a paragon.

If, dear Anthea, my hard fate it be To live some few sad hours after thee, Thy sacred corse with odours I will burn, And with my laurel crown thy golden urn. Then holding up there such religious things As were, time past, thy holy filletings, Near to thy reverend pitcher I will fall Down dead for grief, and end my woes withal: So three in one small plat of ground shall lie— Anthea, Herrick, and his poetry.