| As virtuous men pass mildly away
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| And whisper to their souls, to go
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| Whilst some of their sad friends do say
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| The breath goes now, and some say, no:
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| So let us melt, and make no noise
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| No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move
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| 'Twere profanation of our joys
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| To tell the laity our love
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| Moving of th’earth brings harms and fears
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| Men reckon what it did and meant
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| But trepidation of the spheres
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| Though greater far, is innocent
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| Dull sublunary lovers' love
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| (Whole soul is sense) cannot admit
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| Absence, because it doth remove
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| Those things which elemented it
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| But we by a love, so much refined
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| That our selves know not what it is
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| Inter-assured of the mind
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| Care less, eyes, lips, and hands to miss
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| Our two souls therefore, which are one
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| Though I must go, endure not yet
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| A breach, but expansion
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| Like gold to aery thinnest beat
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| If they be two, they are two so
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| As stiff twin compasses are two
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| Thy soul the fixed foot, makes no show
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| To move, but doth, if th’other do
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| And though it in the centre sit
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| Yet when the other far doth roam
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| It leans, and harkens after it
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| And grows erect, as that comes home
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| Such wilt thou be to me, who must
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| Like th’other foot, obliquely run;
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| Thy firmness makes my circle just
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| And makes me end, where I began |