For too little of tile best Marle can doe but little good, and too nmch therof hath beene alreadie founde to bee verie hurtfull to the Corne.
Corne, which is the staffe of life.
Next morning, when the golden sunne was risen, And new had bid good morrow to the mountaines; When night her silver light had lockt in prison, Which gave a glimmering on the christall fountaines: Then ended sleepe, and then my cares began, Ev'n with the uprising of the silver swan. Oh, glorious sunne! quoth I, viewing the sunne, That lightenst everie thing but me alone: Why is my summer season almost done, My spring-time past, and ages autumne gone? My harvest's come, and yet I reapt no Corne: My love is great, and yet I am forlorne.
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