  Those lovers old had rare conceits To make persuasion beautiful, Or rail upon the pretty fool Who would not share those wanton sweets That, guarded, soon are bitterness. But we, my love, can look on these Old tournaments of wit, and say What novices of love were they, Who loved by seasons and degrees, And in the rate of more and less. We will not make of love a stale For deft and nimble argument, Nor shall denial and consent Be processes whereof shall fail One surety that we possess. |
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