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 VAIN Love, why do'st thou boast of Wings, 
That cannot help thee to retire! 
When such quick Flames Suspicion brings, 
As do the Heart about thee fire.
Still Swift to come, but when to go Thou shou'd'st be more–Alas! how Slow.
Lord of the World must surely be But thy bare Title at the most; Since Jealousy is Lord of Thee, And makes such Havock on thy Coast, As do's thy pleasant Land deface, Yet binds thee faster to the Place.

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