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| Chorus |
Now old desire doth in his death-bed lie, |
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And young affection gapes to be his heir; |
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That fair for which love groan'd for and would die, |
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With tender Juliet match'd, is now not fair. |
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Now Romeo is beloved and loves again, |
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Alike betwitched by the charm of looks, |
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But to his foe supposed he must complain, |
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And she steal love's sweet bait from fearful hooks: |
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Being held a foe, he may not have access |
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To breathe such vows as lovers use to swear; |
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And she as much in love, her means much less |
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To meet her new-beloved any where: |
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But passion lends them power, time means, to meet |
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Tempering extremities with extreme sweet. |
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