Reheat the hell of times our Love was not,
And sighs did burn to breathe a loveless life.
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My sweetest Will, to thee shake I my spear,
Whose cut and cun’, once dull, now pricks like ice
The Modern Poets’ make of poem no ear
Should take as Music’s make, but kitsch device,
Deprived of clauses true, cliché in hues.
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