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Poem by John Harington
Such colour had her face as when the sun Shines in a watery cloud in pleasant spring; And even as when the summer is begun The nightingales in boughs do sit and sing, So the blind god, whose force can no man shun Sits in her eyes, and thence his darts doth fling; Bathing his wings in her bright crystal streams, And sunning them in her rare beauties beams. In these he heads his golden-headed dart, In those he cooleth it, and tempereth so, He levels thence at good Oberto's heart, And to the head he draws it in his bow.
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