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| GOWER.: |
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| Now our sands are almost run; |
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| More a little, and then dumb. |
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| This, my last boon, give me, |
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| For such kindness must relieve me, |
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| That you aptly will suppose |
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| What pageantry, what feats, what shows, |
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| What minstrelsy, and pretty din, |
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| The regent made in Mytilene |
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| To greet the king. So he thrived, |
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| That he is promised to be wived |
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| To fair Marina; but in no wise |
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| Till he had done his sacrifice, |
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| As Dian bade: whereto being bound, |
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| The interim, pray you, all confound. |
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| In feather'd briefness sails are fill'd, |
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| And wishes fall out as they're will'd. |
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| At Ephesus, the temple see, |
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| Cur king and all his company. |
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| That he can hither come so soon, |
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| Is by your fancy's thankful doom. |
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