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If all your time was mine that it was lost,
To all those others whom you might accost,
Then what would I with my own good time do,
It would methinks be spent just loving you.
Yet love that flees not sometimes like a deer,
Into the shadows of the woods in fear,
Knows not its richness nor its own devise,
For the chase renews the value of its price.
Love does not die and yet its hue can fade,
Seemingly frail when thought so strongly made,
For even love like flowers must renew,
Its fragrant petals and its magic hue,
Lest its warm fire is left by time to die,
Leaving us sad and asking why oh why?
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