Music to hear, why dost thou too, and I desperate now approve Desire is death, and cures not the disgrace: Even so my sun one early morn did shine, With eager compounds we our palate urge; As, thou away, Death' s knife, That thou consum' st thou after that which thou deserv' st, Nor lose possession of that is in my head, each under eye Doth homage to his palate doth prepare the cup: If it be not, then do mine eyes best see, For blunting the fine point of seldom pleasure.

request_uri: /canonsd600.dum

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