Goe to my Love where she is carelesse layd Yet in her winter's bowere not well awake; Tell her the joyous time will not be staid Unlesse she doe him by the forelock take.
Loe here the precious dust is layd; Whose purely-temper'd clay was made So fine that it the guest betray'd. Else the soule grew so fast within, It broke the outward shell of sinne And so was hatch'd a cherubin.
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