SONNETS.
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O Nightingale, that on yon bloomy SprayWarbl'st at eeve, when all the Woods are still,Thou with fresh hope the Lovers heart dost fill,While the jolly hours lead on propitious May,Thy liquid notes that close the eye of Day,First heard before the shallow Cuccoo's billPortend success in love; O if Jove's willHave linkt that amorous power to thy soft lay,Now timely sing, ere the rude Bird of HateForetell my hopeles doom in som Grove ny: 10As thou from yeer to yeer hast sung too lateFor my relief; yet hadst no reason why,Whether the Muse, or Love call thee his mate,Both them I serve, and of their train am I.
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