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Poem	What needeth these threnning words and wasted wind? All this cannot make me restore my prey. To rob your good, iwis, is not my mind, Nor causeless your fair hand did I display. Let love be judge or else whom next we meet That may both hear what you and I can say: She took from me an heart, and I a glove from her. Let us see now if th'one be worth th'other.
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