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Poor broken glass, I often did behold

Brutus, who pluck'd the knife from Lucrece' sido, In thy sweet semblance my old age new-born; Seeing such emulation in their woe, But now that fair fresh mirror, dim and old, Began to clothe his wit in state and pride, Shews me a bare-bon'd death by time out-worn; Burying in Lucrece' wound his folly's show. O, from thy cheeks my image thou hast torn!

He with the Romans was esteem'd so And shiver'd all the beauty of my glass,

As silly jeering idiots are with kings, That I no more can see what once I was.

For sportive words, and uttering foolish things. O time, cease thou thy course, and last no longer, But now he throws that shallow habit by, If they surcease to be, that should survive. Wherein deep policy did him disguise ; Shall rotten death make conquest of the stronger, And arm'd his long hid wits advisedly, And leave the faltering feeble souls alive?

To check the tears in Collatinus' eyes.
The old bees die, the young possess their hive . Thou wronged lord of Rome, quoth he, arise,

Then live sweet Lucrece, live again, and see Let my unsounded self, suppos'd a fool,
Thy father die, and not thy father thee !

Now set thy long.experienced wit to school. By this starts Collatine as from a dream,

Why, Collatine, is woe the cure for woe? And bids Lucretius give his sorrow place ; Do wounds help wounds, orgrief help grievous deeds? And then in key-cold Lucrece' bleeding stream Is it revenge to give thyself a blow, He falls, and bathes the pale fear in his face, For his foul act by whom thy fair wife bleeds ? And counterfeits to die with her a space;

Such childish humour from weak minds proceeds : Till manly shame bids him possess his breath, Thy wretched wife mistook the matter so, And live to be revenged on her death.

To slay herself, that should have slain her foe. I'he deep vexation of his inward soul

Courageous Roman, do not steep thy heart Hath serv'd a dumb arrest upon his tongue ; In such relenting dew of lamentations, Who mad thai sorrow should his use control, But kneel with me, and help to bear thy part, Or keep him from heart.easing words so long, To rouse our Roman gods with invocations, Begins to talk; but through his lips do throng That they will suffer these abominations, Weak words, so thick come, in his poor heart's aid,

Since Rome herself in them doth stand disgraced That no man could distinguish what he said. By our strong arms from forth her fair streets chased. Yet sometime Tarquin was pronounced plain,

Now by the Capitol that we adore,
But through his teeth as if the name he tore, And by this chaste blood so unjustly stained,
This windy tempest, till it blow up rain,

By heaven's fair sun, that breeds the fat earth's store,
Held back' his sorrow's tide, to make it more ; By all our country's rights in Rome maintained,
At last it rains, and busy winds give o'er :

And by chaste Lucrece soul that late complained Then son and farher weep with equal strife, Her wrongs to us, and by this bloody knife,

Who should weep most for daughter or for wife. We will revenge the death of this true wife. The one doth call her his, the other his,

This said, he struck his hand upon his breast, Yet neither may possess the claim they lay.

And kiss'd the fatal knife to end his vow; The father says, she's mine: O mine she is, And to his protestation urg'd the rest, Replies her husband : Do not take away

Who wondering at him, did his words allow : My sorrow's interest ; let no mourner say

Then jointly to the ground their knees they bow; He weeps for her, for she was only mine,

And that deep vow which Brutus made before, And only must be wail'd by Collatine.

He doth again repeat, and that they swore. O, quoth Lucretius, I did give that life,

When they had sworn to this advised doom,
Which she too early and too late hath spill’d. They did conclude to bear dead Lucrece thence;
Woe, woe, quoth Collatine, she was my wife, To shew the bleeding body thorough Rome,
I owned her, and 'tis mine that she hath kill'd. And so to publish Tarquin's foul offence :
My daughter and my wife with clamours fill'd Which being done with speedy diligence,

The dispers’d air, who holding Lucrece' life, The Romans plausibly did give consent,
Answer'd their cries, my duughter and my wife. To Tarquin's everlasting banishment.

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From fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should time decrease,
His tender heir might bear his memory :
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light's Aame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel,
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament,
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content,
And, tender churl, mak’st waste in niggarding,

Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.

When forty winters shall besiege thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gaz'd on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held :
Then being ask'd where all thy beauty lies,
Where all the treasure of thy lusty days ;
To say, within thine own deep-sunken eyes,
Were an all-eating shame, and thriftless praise.
How much more praise deserv'd thy beauty's use,
If thou could'st answer --" This fair child of mine
Shall sum my count, and make my old excuser"
Proving his beauty by succession thine.

This were to be new-made when thou art old,
And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold






Yet mortal looks adore his beauty still, Look in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewest,

Attending on his golden pilgrimage ; Now is the time that face should form another ;

But when from high-most pitch, with weary car, Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,

Like feeble age, he reeleth from the day, Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.

The eyes, 'fore duteous, now converted are For where is she so fair, whose un-ear'd womb

From his low tract, and look another way: Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry?

So thou, thyself out going in thy noon,
Or who is he so fond, will be the tomb

Unlook'd on diest, unless thou get a son.
Of his self love, to stop posterity ?
Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in theo
Calls back the lovely April of her prime:

Music to hear, why hear’st thou music sadly? So thou through windows of thine age shalt see,

Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy. Despite of wrinkles, this thy golden time.

Why lov'st thou that which thou receiv'st not gladly : But if thou live, remember'd not to be,

Or else receiv'st with pleasure thine


If the true concord of well-tuned sounds,
Die single, and thine image dies with thee.

By unions married, do offend thine ear,

They do but sweetly chide thee who confounds Unthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend

In singleness the parts that thou should'st bear. Upon thyself thy beauty's legacy ?

Mark how one string, sweet husband to another, Nature's bequest gives nothing, but doth lend,

Strikes each in each by mutual ordering ; And being frank, she lends to those are free.

Resembling sire and child and happy mother, Then, beauteous niggard, why dost thou abuse

Who all in one, one pleasing note do sing : The bountcous largess given thee to give ?

Whose speechless song, being many, seeming one Profitless usurer, why dost thou use

Sings this to thee," thou single wilt prove none.' So great a sum of sums, yet canst not live ? For having traffic with thyself alone, Thou of thyself thy sweet self dost deceive.

Is it for fear to wet a widow's eye, Then how, when nature calls thee to be gone,

That thou consum'st thyself in single life? What acceptable audit canst thou leave ?

Ah! if thou issueless shalt hap to dic, Thy unus'd beauty must be lomb'd with thee,

The world will wail thee, like a mateless wife; Which, used, lives thy executor to be.

The world will be thy widow and still weep,
That thou no form of thee hast left behind,

When every private widow well may keep,
Those hours, that with gentle work did frame

By children's eyes, her husband's shape in mind. The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell,

Look, what an unthrift in the world doth spend, Will play the tyrants to the very same,

Shifts but his place, for still the world enjoys it; And that unfair which fairly doth excell;

But beauty's waste hath in the world an end, For never-resting time leads summer on

And kept unus'd, the user so destroys it. To hideous winter, and confounds him there;

No love toward others in that bosom sits, Sap check'd with frost, and lusty leaves quite gone,

That on himself such murderous shame commits Beauty o'ersnow'd, and bareness every where:

Then, were not summer's distillation left,
A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass,

For shame! deny that thou bear'st love to any. Beauty's effect with beauty were bereft,

Who for thyself art so unprovident. Nor it, nor no remembrance what it was,

Grant if thou wilt, thou art belov'd of many,
But flowers distill’d, though they with winter meet, But that thou none lov'st, is most evident ;
Leese but their show; their substance still lives For thou art so possess'd with murderous hate,

That 'gainst thyself thou stick'st not to conspire,
Seeking that beauteous roof to ruinate,

Which to repair should be thy chief desire.
Then let not winter's ragged hand deface

O change thy thought, that I may change my mind : In thee thy summer, ere thou be distillid:

Shall hate be fairer lodg'd than gentle love ! Make sweet some phial, treasure thou some place Be, as thy presence is, gracious and kind, With beauty's treasure, ere it be self-kill'd. Or to thyself, at least, kind-hearted

prove: That use is not forbidden usury,

Make thee another self, for love of me,
Which happies those that pay the willing loan; That beauty still may live in thine and thee.
That's for thyself to breed another thee,
Or ten times happier, be it ten for one ;
Ten times thyself were happier than thou art, As fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou grow'st
Jf ten of thine ten times refigur'd thee :

In one of thine, froin that which thou departest; Then, what could death do if thou should'st depart, And that fresh blood which youngly thou bestow'st, Leaving thee living in posterity ?

Thou may'st call thine,when thou from youth convertBe not self-willid, for thou art much too fair Herein lives wisdom, beauty, and increase ; [est Tube death's conquest, and make worms thine heir. Without this, folly, age, and cold decay.

If all were minded


the times should cease,

And threescore years would make the world away. Lo, in the orient, when the gracious light

Let those whom nature hath not made for store, Lifts up his burning head, each under eye

Harsh, featureless, and rude, barrenly perish: Doth homage to his new-appearing sight,

Look whom she best endow'd, she gave thee more Serving with looks his sacred majesty;

Which bounteous gift thoushould'st in bounty cherish And having climb’d the steep-up heavenly hill She carv'd thee for her seal, and meant thereby, Resembling strong youth in his middle age,

Thou should'st print more, nor let that copy die.









With virtuous wish would bear you living flowers, When I do count the clock that tells the time,

Much liker than your painted counterfeit :

So should the lines of life that life repair, And see the brave day sunk in hideous night;

Which this, Time's pencil, or my pupil pen, When I behold the violet past prime,

Neither in inward worth, nor outward fair,
And sable curls, all silverd o'er with white;

Can make you live yourself in eyes of men.
When lofty trees I see barren of leaves,
Which erst from heat did canopy the herd,

To give away yourself, keeps yourself still ; Ing summer's green all girded up in sheaves,

And you must live, drawn by your own sweet skill Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard ; Then of thy beauty do I question make,

Who will believe my verse in time to coine,
That thou among the wastes of time must go,

If it were fill'd with your most high deserts ?
Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake,
And die as fast as they see others grow;

Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb

Which hides your life, and shows not half your parts.
And nothing'gainst time's scythe can make defence,
Save breed, to brave him, when he takes thee hence: If I could write the beauty of your eyes,

And in fresh numbers number all your graces,
The age to come would say

this poet lies,

Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces. O that you were yourself! but, love, you are

So should my papers, yellow'd with their age, No longer your's, than you yourself here live:

Be scorn'd, like old men of less truth than tongue; Against this coming end you should prepare,

And your true rights be term'd a poet's rage,
And your sweet semblance to some other give. And stretched metre of an antique song:
So should that beauty which you hold in lease,

But were some child of yours alive that time, Find no determination : then you were

You should live twice ;-in it, and in my rhime. Yourself again, after yourself's decease, When your sweet issue your sweet form should bear. Who lets so fair a house fall to decay, Which husbandry in honour might uphold

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?

Thou art more lovely and more temperate : Against the storiny gusts of winter's day,

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May. And barren rage of death's eternal cold?

0! none but unthrifts : - Dear, my love, you know, And summer's lease hath all too short a date :
You had a father ; let your son say so.

Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimın'd;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,

By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimm'd;
Not from the stars do I my judgment pluck , But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
And yet methinks I have astronomy,

Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest ; But not to tell of good, or evil luck,

Nor shall death brag thou wander'st in his shade, Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality : When in eternal lines to time thou growest; Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,

So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, Pointing to each his thunder, rain and wind,

So long lives this, and this gives life to thee. Or say, with princes if it shall go well, By oft predict that I in heaven find : But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,

Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws, And (constant stars) in them I read such art,

And make the earth devour her own sweet brood; As truth and beauty shall together thrive,

Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws, If from thyself to store thou would'st convert :

And burn the long-liv'd phenix in her blood ; Or else of thee this I prognosticate,

Make glad and sorry seasons, as thou feet'st,
Thy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date.

And do whate'er thou wilt, swift-footed Time,
To the wide world, and all her fading sweets ;

But I forbid thee one most heinous crime:
When I consider every thing that grows

O carve not with thy hours my love's fair brow, Holds in perfection but a little moment,

Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen ; That this huge state presenteth nought but shows Him in thy course untainted do allow, Whereon the stars in secret influence comment; For beauty's pattern to succeeding men. When I perceive that men as plants increase, Yet, do thy worst, old Time: despite thy wrong, Cheered and check'd even by the self-same sky; My love shall in my verse ever live young. Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease, And wear their brave state out of memory; Then the conceit of this inconstant stay

A woman's face, with nature's own hand painted, Sets you most rich in youth before my sight, Hast thou, the master-mistress of my passion ; Where wasteful time debateth with decay,

A woman's gentle heart, but not acquainted To change your day of youth to sullied night; With shifting change, as is false women's fashion

And, all in war with time, for love of you, An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling, As he takes from you, I engraft you new. Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth ;

A man in hue, all hues in his controlling,

Which steals men's eyes, and women's souls amazeth. But wherefore do not you a mightier way

And for a woman wert thou first created ; Make war upon this bloody tyrant, Time ?

Till nature, as she wrought thee, fell a doting, And fortify yourself in your decay

Aud by addition me of thee defeated,
With means more blessed than my barren rhime ? By adding one thing to my purpose nothing.
Now stand you on the top of happy hours ;

But since she prick'd thee out for women's pleasure, And many inaiden gardens yet unset

Mine be thy love, and thy love's use their treasure





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And in themselves their pride lies buried, So it is not with me as with that muse,

For at a frown they in their glory die.

The painful warrior famoused for fight, Stirr'd by a painted beauty to his verse;

After a thousand victories once foil'd, Who heaven itself for ornament doth use,

Is from the book of honour razed quite, And every fair with his fair doth rehearse ;

And all the rest forgot for which he toild: Making a couplement of proud compare,

Then happy I, that love and am beloved,
With sun and moon, with earth and sea's rich gems,

Where I may not remove, nor be removed
With April's first-born flowers, and all things rare
That heaven's air in his huge rondure hems.
O let me, true in love, but truly write,

Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage
And then believe me, my love is as fair

Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit,
As any mother's child, though not so bright To thee I send this written embassage,
As those gold candles fixed in heaven's air : To witness duty, not to shew my wit.

Let them say more that like of hear-say well; Duty so great, which wit so poor as mine
I will not praise, that purpose not to sell. May make seem bare, in wanting words to shew it ;

But that I hope some good conceit of thine

In thy soul's thought, all naked, will bestow it : My glass shall not persuade me I am old,

Till whatsoever star that guides my moving, So long as youth and thou are of one date ; Points on me graciously with fair aspect, But when in thee time's furrows I behold,

And puts apparel on my tattered loving, Then look I death my days should expiate. To shew me worthy of thy sweet respect : For all that beauty that doth cover thee,

Then may I dare to boast how I do love thee, (me. Is but the seemly raiment of my heart,

Till then, not shew my head where thou may'st prove Which in thy breast doth live, as thine in me; How can I then be elder than thou art ?

XXVII. Otherefore, love, be of thyself so wary,

Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,
As I not for myself, but for thee will;

T'he dear repose for limbs with travel tired;
Bearing thy heart, which I will keep so chary But then begins a journey in my head,
As tender nurse her babe from faring ill.

To work my mind, when body's work's expired: Presume not on thy heart when mine is slain ; For then my thoughts (from far where I abide) Thou gav'st me thine, not to give back again. Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,

And keep my drooping eye-lids open wide,

Looking on darkness which the blind do see, A: an unperfect actor on the stage,

Save that my soul's imaginary sight Who with his fear is put beside his part,

Presents thy shadow to my sightless view, Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,

Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night, Whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart; Makes black night beauteous, and her old face nes So I, for fear of trust, forget to say

Lo thus by day my limbs, by night my inind, The perfect ceremony of love's rite,

For thee, and for myself no quiet find. And in mine own love's strength seem to decay,

xxvm. O'ercharg'd with burthen of mine own love's might. O let my books be then the eloquence

How can I then return in happy plight, And dumb presagers of my speaking breast;

That am debarr'd the benefit of rest? Who plead for love, and look for recompence,

When day's oppression is not eas'd by night, More than that tongue that more hath more

express’d. But day by night and night by day oppress'd ? o learn to read what silent love hath writ:

And each, though enemies to either's reiga,
To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit.

Do in consent shake hands to torture me,
The one by toil, the other to complain

How far I toil, still farther off from thee.
Mine eye hath play'd the painter, and hath stel’d I tell the day, to please him, thou art bright,
Thy beauty's form in table of my heart;

And dost him grace when clouds do blot the heaven: My body is the frame wherein 'tis held,

So flatter I the swart-complexion'd night ; And perspective it is best painter's art.

When sparkling stars twire not, thou gild'st the even. For through the painter must you see his skill,

But day doth daily draw my sorrows longer, To find where your true image pictur'd lies,

And night doth nightly make grief's length seen Which in my bosom's shop is hanging still,

That hath his windows glazed with thine eyes.
Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done ; When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,
Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me I all alone beweep my out-cast state,
Are windows to my breast, where-through the sun And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
Delights to peep, io gaze therein on thee ;. And look upon myself, and curse my fate,

Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art, Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
They draw but what they see, know not the heart. Featur'd like him, like him with friends possessid

Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope,

With what I most enjoy contented least; Let those who are in favour with their stars, Yet in these thoughts myself alınost despising, Of public honour and proud titles boast,

Haply I think on thee, --and then my state Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars, (Like to the lark at break of day arising Uplook'd-for joy in that I honour most.

From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven's gate; Great princes' favourites their fair leaves spread, For thy sweet love remember'd, such wealth brings But as the marigold at the sun's eye,

That then I scorn to change my state with kings.







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For no man well of such a salve can speak,

That heals the wound, and cures not the disgrace • When to the sessions of sweet silent thought

Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief; 1 summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,

Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss
And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste : The offender's sorrow lends but weak relief

To him that bears the strong offence's cross.
Then can I drown an eye, unus'd to flow,
For precious friends bid in death's dateless night,

Ah! but those tears are pearl which thy love sheds,

And they are rich, and ransom all ill deeds.
nna weep afresh love's long-since cancell'd woe,
And moan the expence of inany a vanish'd sight.
Then can I grieve at grievances fore-gone,

No more be griev'd at that which thou hast done : And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er

Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud; The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,

Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun, Which I new pay as if not pay'd before.

And loatlısome canker lives in sweetest bud. But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,

All men make faults, and even I in this,
All losses are restor'd, and sorrows end.

Authorizing thy trespass with compare,
Myself corrupting, salving thy amiss,

Excusing thy sins more than thy sins are :
Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts,

For to thy sensual fault I bring in sense,
Which I by lacking have supposed dead;
Ana there reigns love and all love's loving parts,

(Thy adverse party is thy advocate,)

And 'gainst myself a lawful plea commence : And all those friends which I thought buried.

Such civil war is in my love and hate, How many a holy and obsequious tear

That I an accessary needs must be Hath dear religious love stolen from mine eye,

To that sweet thief, which sourly robs from me. As interest of the dead, which now appear But things remov'd, that hidden in thee lie! Thou art the grave where buried love doth live,

Let me confess that we two must be twain, Hung with the trophies of my lovers gone,

Although our undivided loves are one : Who all their parts of me to thee did give;

So shall those blots that do with me remain, That due of many now is thine alone :

Without thy help, by me be borne alone. Their images I lov'd I view in thee,

In our two loves there is but one respect, And thou (all they) hast all the all of me.

Though in our lives a separable spite, xxxn.

Which though it alter not love's sole effeci, If thou survive my well-contented day,

Yet doth it steal sweet hours from love's delight When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover, Lest my bewailed guilt should do thee shame ;

I may not evermore acknowledge thee, And shalt by fortune once more re-survey

Nor thou with public kindness honour me, These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover,

Unless thou take that honour from thy name : Compare them with the bettering of the time;

But do not so; I love thee in such sort, And though they be out-stripp'd by every pen,

As thou being mine, mine is thy good report. Reserve them for my love, not for their rhime, Exceeded by the height of happier men. O then vouchsafe me but this loving thought ! Had my friend's muse grown with this growing age,

As a decrepit father takes delight A dearer birth than this his love had brought,

To see his active child do deeds of youth, To march in ranks of better equipage :

So 1, made lame by fortune's dearest spite, But since he died, and poets better prove,

Take all my coinfort of thy worth and truth;

For whether beauty, birth, or wealth, or wit,
Theirs for their style I'll reud, his for his love.

Or any of these all, or all, or more,

Entitled in thy parts do crowned sit,
Pull many a glorious morning have I seen

I make my love engrafted to this store : Flatter the mountain tops with sovereign eye,

So then I am not lame, poor, nor despis'd, Kissing with golden face the meadows green,

Whilst that this shadow doth such substance give, Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchymy;

That I in thy abundance am suffic'd, Anon permit the basest clouds to ride

And by a part of all thy glory live. With ugly rack on his celestial face,

Look what is best, that best I wish in thee; And from the forlorn world his visage hide,

This wish I have; then ten times happy me' Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace : Even so my sun one early morn did shine, With all triumphant splendour on my brow;

How can my muse want subject to invent, But out! alack' he was but one hour mine,

While thou dost breathe, that pour'st into my verse The region cloud hath mask'd him from me now.

Thine own sweet argument, too excellent Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth;

For every vulgar paper to rehearse ? Suns of the world may stain, when heaven's sun

O give thyself the thanks, if aught in me

Worthy perusal, stand against thy sight,
For who's so dumb that cannot write to thee.

When thou thyself dost give invention light? Why didst thou pron se such a beauteous day, Be thou the tenth muse, ten times more in worth And make me travel forth without my cloak, Than those old nine, which rhimers invocate ; To let base clouds o'ertake me in my way,

And he that calls on thee, let him bring forth Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke?

Eternal numbers to out-live long date. 'Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break, 'If my slight muse do please these curious days, To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face

The pain be mine, but thine shall be the praise.




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