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sonnet of a lad dying for love
How to tell this
love I know not, And
this loud silence I
most loathe; For
like an arrow from a
sharp shot, My heart
batters it within my
coat. A rapid pulse
withing my bosom I
feel, As our roving
balls- her two, my
two- meet; and as
the tempestuous tide
simmered still, In
silence we are bond
sunder on our seat.
No! not for naught
dote I on her: Her
dressy decency doth
draw me; And near
and dear, away she's
far, Her simple
smile so sweet I
see. Lo! bothered
though am I to tell
it; Yet solaced I am
in this that I writ.
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