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Poem	The furious gun in his raging ire, When that the bowl is rammed in too sore And that the flame cannot part from the fire, Cracketh in sunder, and in the air doth roar The shivered pieces; right so doth my desire, Whose flame increaseth from more to more, Which to let out I dare not look or speak; So now hard force my heart doth all to break.
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