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Poem by Robert Ayton
To His Forsaken Mistress
I do confess thou’rt smooth and fair. And I might have gone near to love thee, Had I not found the slightest prayer That lips could move, had power to move thee; But I can let thee now alone As worthy to be loved by none. I do confess thou’rt sweet; yet find Thee such an unthrift of thy sweets, Thy favours are but like the wind That kisseth everything it meets: And since thou canst with more than one, Thou’rt worthy to be kiss’d by none. The morning rose that untouch’d stands Arm’d with her briers, how sweet she smell But pluck’d and strain’d through ruder hands, Her sweets no longer with her dwells: But scent and beauty both are gone, And leaves fall from her, one by one. Such fate ere long will thee betide When thou hast handled been awhile, With sere flowers to be thrown aside; And I shall sigh, while some will smile, To see thy love to every one Hath brought thee to be loved by none.
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