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The Preacher's Love

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THE HOURGLASS

Consider this small dust here running in the glass,
By atoms moved;
Could you believe that this the body was
Of one that loved?

And in his mistress’ flame, playing like a fly,
Turned to cinders by eye:
Yes; and in death, as life, unblessed,
To have it expressed,
Even ashes of lovers find no rest.


By Ben Jonson

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