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Now daye was gone, and night was come, And all were fast asleepe, All save the Lady Emeline, Who sate in her bowre to weepe: And soone she heard her true Love's voice Low whispering at the walle, Awake, awake, my dear Ladye, 'Tis I thy true love call Which is thus tricked out and dilated;
Of mortall life the leafe, the bud, the flowre No more doth florish after first decay, That earst was sought to deck both bed and bowre Of many a lady, and many a Paramowre. Gather therefore the Rose whilest yet is prime, For soone comes age that will her pride deflowre; Gather the Rose of love whitest yet is time, Whitest loving thou mayest loved be withe equall crime.
such as warmed Spenser when he wrote his "Bowre of Blesse;" Tasso his "Gardens of Armida;" Collins his "Melancholy," who "Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul"
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