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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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