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Sonnett
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What fier encreaste by rage of wynde
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The Lytle droppes off raine that fall from hye
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But this and then no more
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Sonnet
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To the greate Macedon my fayre Queene I compare
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Her Face, Her Tongue, Her Wit
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Shee that holdes me under the lawes of love
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Whilste hope high Honnors place to have
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A Pastorall Unfynyshed
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