The hearte is an orgayne of fire, so they doth saye
Fast upon the wyndes doth your spirite travel to mine
Conjuring tempests upon the seas
And lo! My mynde dost heare it whyspere
And highe above, into the starry Heavens,
Rise in ecstacy
Like a flighty airey spirite doth it go!
In the colde wynter wyndes do I lay me down to rest
Only kept warm from mine torrential beating hearte
And mine arms do ache
For your forme cannot fill the empty space between them
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