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What's^in | the brain | that ink | may char|acter
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Which^hath | not fig|ured to thee | my true
| spirit,
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What's^new | to speak,| what now | to reg|ister,
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That may | express | my love,| or thy / dear
merit?
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Nothing | sweet* boy,| but yet | like prayers |
divine,
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I must | each^day | say ore | the ver|y same;
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Counting | no^old | thing^old,| thou mine,| I
thine,
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Eene^as | when first | I hal|lowed thy / fair
name.
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T
So that e|ternal | love in | love's fresh case,
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Weighs^not | the dust | and in|jury | of age,
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Nor gives | to nec|essar|y wrink|les place,
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But makes | anti|quity | for aye | his page;
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T T T
Finding | the first | conceit | of love there
bred,
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Where time | and out|ward form | would show | it
dead.