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Then thus thy leaves we justly may commend,
SEND me some tokens, that my hope may live,
Or that my easeless thoughts may sleep and rest; Send me some honey, to make sweet my hive,
That in my passions I may hope the best.
To knit our loves in the fantastic strain
Of our affection, that, as that's round and plain, So should our loves meet in simplicity;
No, nor the corals, which thy wrist enfold, Lac'd up together in congruity,
To show our thoughts should rest in the same
No, nor thy picture, though most gracious,
And most desir'd, 'cause 'tis like the best; Nor witty lines, which are most copious,
Within the writings, which thou hast address’d. Send me nor this, nor that, t increase my score; But swear thou think'st I love thee, and no more.