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Poem by Philip Sidney
Sonnet 78. Oh How The Pleasant Airs
Oh how the pleasnat airs of true love be Infect'd by those vapors, which arise From out that noisome gulf, which gaping lies Between the jaws of hellish Jealousy: A monster, others' harm, self-misery, Beauty's plague, Virtue's scourge, succour of lies; Who his own joy to his own hurt applies, And only cherish doth with injury; Who since he hath, by Nature's special grace, So piercing paws as spoil when they embrace, So nimble feet as stir still, though on thorns, So many eyes ay seeking their own woe, So ample ears as never good news know: Is it not evil that such a Devil want horns?
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