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SWEET be not proud of those two eye
Which star-like sparkle in their skies;
Nor be you proud, that you can see
All hearts your captives; yours yet free:
Be you not proud of that rich hair
Which wantoms with the lovesick air;
When as that ruby which you wear,
Sunk from the tip of you soft ear,
Will last to be a precious stone
When all your world of beauty's gone.
by Robert Herrick
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Copyright � 1998 Michael Ammar.