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- THE ARROW
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- I THOUGHT of your beauty, and this arrow,
- Made out of a wild thought, is in my marrow.
- There's no man may look upon her, no man,
- As when newly grown to be a woman,
- Tall and noble but with face and bosom
- Delicate in colour as apple blossom.
- This beauty's kinder, yet for a reason
- I could weep that the old is out of season.
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