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Alack | what pov|erty | my Muse | brings^forth,
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That hav|ing such | a scope | to show | her
pride,
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The arg|ument | all bare | is of | more* worth
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Than when | it hath | my ad|ded praise | beside.
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Oh blame | me not | if I | no more | can write,
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Look in | your glass | and there | appears | a
face
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That ov|er-goes | my blunt | invent|ion quite,
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Dulling | my lines,| and do|ing me | disgrace.
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Were^it | not sin/ful then | striving | to mend,
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To mar | the sub|ject that | before | was well,
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For to | no oth|er pass | my ver|ses tend,
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Than of | your gra|ces and | your gifts | to
tell.
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And more, much more | than in | my verse | can
sit,
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Your own | glass shows you,| when^you look |
in it.