Poem by Henry VIII, King of England

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O my hart and O my hart!
My hart it is so sore,
Sens I must nedys from my love depart
And know no cunse wherefore. 

1. Though that Men do Call it Dotage
2. Wherto Shuld I Expresse
3. Though Some Saith That Youth Ruleth Me
4. The Time of Youth is to be Spent
5. Departure Is My Chef Payne

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