O be not griev`d that these my papers should Betray unto the world how fair thou art, Or that my wits have show`d the best they could The chastest flame that ever warmed heart. Think not, sweet Delia, this shall be thy shame, My Muse should sound thy praise with mournful warble; How many live, the glory of whose name Shall rest in ice when thine is grav`d in marble? Thou mayst in after ages live esteem`d, Unburied in these lines reserv`d in pureness; These shall entomb those eyes that have redeem`d Me from the vulgar, thee from all obscureness. Although my carefull accents ne`er mov`d thee, Yet count it no disgrace that I have lov`d thee.SourceThe script ran 0.001 seconds.
The script ran 0.001 seconds.
