 |
 |
Or, to go back to centos, When in the chronicles of wasted time That thy unkindness lays upon my heart, Bearing the wanton burthen of the prime To guard the lawful reasons on thy part, My heart doth plead that thou in him dost lie The perfect ceremony of love's rite, And scarcely greet me with that sun thine eye To change your day of youth to sullen night, Then in the number let me pass untold So that myself bring water for my stain, That poor retention could not so much hold Knowing thy heart torment me in disdain: O cunning love, with tears thou keep'st me blind, Since I left you my eye is in my mind. ikp %%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%