  Tell me not, sweet, I am unkinde, That from the nunnerie Of thy chaste breast and quiet minde, To warre and armes I flee. True, a new mistresse now I chase,— The first foe in the field; And with a stronger faith imbrace A sword, a horse, a shield. Yet this inconstancy is such As you, too, should adore; I could not love thee, deare, so much, Loved I not honor more. Richard Lovelace. |
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