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Come unto these yellow sands,
And then take hands:
Courtsied when you have, and kiss'd
The wild waves whist.
Of excellent dumb discourse.
Who having into truth, by telling of it,
Made such a sinner of his memory,
To credit his own lie.
I, thus neglecting worldly ends, all dedicated
To closeness and the bettering of my mind.
Merrily, merrily shall I live now,
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.
Now would I give a thousand furlongs of sea for an acre of barren ground.
Where the bee sucks, there suck I;
In a cowslip's bell I lie.
Deeper than did ever plummet sound
I'll drown my book.