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Sonnet 112

             ,         ,      ,       2    ,         ,
      Your love | and pi|ty doth | the impress|ion fill,
             ,        ,         ,        ,         ,
      Which vul|gar scand|al stamped | upon | my brow;
            ,         ,         ,          ,        ,
      For what | care^I | who calls | me well | or ill,
          ,          ,         ,         ,       ,
      So you | ore-green | my bad,| my good | allow?
           ,        ,          ,         ,          ,
      You are | my all | the world,| and I | must^strive
           ,          ,           ,        ,             ,
      To know | my shames | and prais|es from | your* tongue;
             ,        ,       ,        ,       ,
      None^else | to me,| nor I | to none | alive,
                   ,      ,          ,        ,          ,
      That my / steeled sense | or chang|es right | or wrong.
          ,        ,        x        ,            ,
      In so | profound | abysm | I throw | all* care
          ,        ,         ,        ,         ,
      Of oth|ers' voi|ces, that | my ad|der's sense
           ,      ,         ,    2     ,       ,
      To crit|ic and | to flat|terer stop|ped are.
            ,          ,       ,        ,        ,
      Mark^how | with my | neglect | I do | dispense:
           ,          ,       ,       ,         ,
      You are | so strong|ly in | my pur|pose bred,
            ,          ,         ,           ,              ,
      That all | the world | besides | me thinks | you're dead.

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