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Poem	My Muse in meads has spent her many hours Sitting, and sorting several sorts of flowers, To make for others garlands; and to set On many a head here, many a coronet. But amongst all encircled here, not one Gave her a day of coronation; Till you, sweet mistress, came and interwove A laurel for her, ever young as Love. You first of all crown'd her; she must, of due, Render for that, a crown of life to you.
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