We are oft to blame in this, 'Tis too much prov'd, that with devotion's visage, And pious action, we do sugar o'er The devil himself.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come; Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom. If this be error and upon me prov'd, I never writ, nor no man ever lov'd.
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