Normale Version: To Mie Tirante
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To Mie Tirante

Thou, att whose feete I waste mie soule in sighes,
Before whose beautie mie proude hearte is meeke,
Thou who make'st dove-like mie fierce falcon-cies,
And pale'st the rose of mie Lancastrian cheeke
With one colde smyle about this budded mouth:
Oh! that mie harmlesse vengeaunce I could wreake,
On that pale rival bloome of thine! - the South
Raves not more fell, prisoned an Aprill weeke,

To feede on lilie-banks, than I to prey
Some greedie minutes on that blossome whyte,
Whose gentle ravange thou'dst too long delaie! -
O when these Roses of our cheeks unite,
Will't not a summer-happie season be
If not for Englande, in sweete soothe for me!