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Celinda has inform'd me true 'tis she Good morrow, Brother, what, so early at your Devotions? Cel. Friend. Your Orizons are made to a fair Saint. Pray, Sir, what Lady's that? Or is it blasphemy to repeat her Name? By my bright Arms, she's fair With what a charming Fierceness, she charges through my Body to my Heart. Death! how her glittering Eyes give Fire, and wound!
Which pushes the brain and doth connfound the sence, Which makes us rather beare those evilles we have, Than flie to others that we know not of. I that, O this conscience makes cowardes of us all. Lady in thy orizons, be all my sinnes remembered.
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