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 You blame me too, because I can't devise Some sport to please those babies in your eyes: By love's religion, I must here confess it, The most I love when I the least express it. Small griefs find tongues: full casks are ever found To give (if any, yet) but little sound. Deep waters noiseless are; and this we know, That chiding streams betray small depth below. So, when love speechless is, she doth express A depth in love and that depth bottomless. Now, since my love is tongueless, know me such Who speak but little 'cause I love so much.

Babies in your eyes, see Note.

I have lost, and lately, these Many dainty mistresses: Stately Julia, prime of all: Sappho next, a principal: Smooth Anthea for a skin White, and heaven-like crystalline: Sweet Electra, and the choice Myrrha for the lute and voice: Next Corinna, for her wit, And the graceful use of it: With Perilla: all are gone; Only Herrick's left alone For to number sorrow by Their departures hence, and die.