Written in My Lady Speke's Singing-Book
Her fair eyes, if they could see
What themselves have wrought in me,
Would at least with pardon look
On this scribbling in her book:
If that she the writer scorn,
This may from the rest be torn,
With the ruin of a part,
But the image of her graces
Fills my heart and leaves no spaces.
What themselves have wrought in me,
Would at least with pardon look
On this scribbling in her book:
If that she the writer scorn,
This may from the rest be torn,
With the ruin of a part,
But the image of her graces
Fills my heart and leaves no spaces.
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