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Poem by Philip Sidney
Sonnet 67. Hope, Art Thou True
Hope, art thou true, or dost thou flatter me? Doth Stella now begin with piteous eye The ruins of her conquest to espy: Will she take time, before all wracked be? Her eye's speech is translated thus by thee. But failst thou not in phrase so heav'nly high? Look on again, the fair text better try: What blushing notes dost thou in margin see? What sighs stol'n out, or kill'd before full born? Hast thou found such and such like arguments? Or art thou else to comfort me foresworn? Well, how so thou interpret the contents, I am resolv'd thy error to maintain, Rather than by more truth to get more pain.
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