AS oftentimes the too resplendent sun
Hurries the pallid and reluctant moon
Back to her sombre cave, ere she hath won
A single ballad from the nightingale,
So doth thy Beauty make my lips to fail,
And all my sweetest singing out of tune.
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Thou to some lips of sweeter melody, And I to nurse the barren memory Of unkissed kisses, and songs never sung. Great poetry.