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 To noble discipline! Nod to this vow of mine. Come, then, and now inspire My viol and my lyre With your eternal fire, And make me one entire Composer in your choir. Then I'll your altars strew With roses sweet and new; And ever live a true Acknowledger of you.


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I'll sing no more, nor will I longer write Of that sweet lady, or that gallant knight. I'll sing no more of frosts, snows, dews and showers; No more of groves, meads, springs and wreaths of flowers. I'll write no more, nor will I tell or sing Of Cupid and his witty cozening: I'll sing no more of death, or shall the grave No more my dirges and my trentalls have. Trentalls, service for the dead.


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Who read'st this book that I have writ, And can'st not mend but carp at it; By all the Muses! thou shalt be Anathema to it and me.