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I.
I
laugh and sing, but cannot tell
Whether the folly
on't sounds well;
But then I groan,
Methinks, in
tune;
Whilst grief, despair and fear dance to the
air
Of my despised prayer.
II.
A
pretty antick love does this,
Then strikes a
galliard with a kiss;
As in the end
The chords
they rend;
So you but with a touch from your fair
hand
Turn all to saraband.
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