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Her hair reflex with red strakes paints the skyes, Sweet morn and evening dew flows from her breath: Phoebe rules tides, she my tears tides forth draws. In her sick bed love fits, and maketh laws. Her dainty lips tinsel her silk-soft sheets, Her rose-crown'd cheeks eclipse my dazled sight. O glass with too much joy, my thoughts thou greets, And yet thou shewest me day but by twilight.
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