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Sonnet 21 by Thomas Lodge
Ye heralds of my heart, mine ardent groans,
Oh, tears which gladly would burst out to brooks,
Oh, spent on fruitless sand my surging moans,
Oh, thoughts enthralled unto care-boding looks!
Ah, just laments of my unjust distress,
Ah, fond desires whom reason could not guide!
Oh, hopes of love that intimate redress,
Yet prove the load-stars unto bad betide!
When will you cease? Or shall pain never-ceasing,
Seize on my heart? Oh, mollify your rage,
Lest your assaults with over-swift increasing,
Procure my death, or call on timeless age.
What if they do? They shall but feed the fire,
Which I have kindled by my fond desire.
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