Ye flow'ry meads, where I do use to sing, And with complaining notes do often fill ye, Ye purling streams, where I with quav'ring string, Make music, tell the praise of my Azile; Ye shady groves and melancholy places, Where oft I do retire to sigh my wrongs, Ye lofty hills that oft hear my disgraces, To whom I chatter forth my heavy songs, Let these persuasions now your voices move, Say if I ever spake against my love.
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Other Poems of Interest...
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