On Love

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Tis a strange thought, when truly felt,
when one has not, to own your life no more.
Giv'n way to that undefined.
But truly felt, when felt it is, to
Own tis naught atoll.

So midst those mindless throws
Of passion, ensued,
Entrap my heart by yours,
And stay me there, impris'n
And know, that what you do,
Tis what, though say I might not,
I need, beside which wanting,
Does pitiful seem.

So as allowed, do fit as seen,
Ravish and scream, rip and tear,
For what you want, tis pitifull not
Within mine eyes,
Tis as you want I need,
Matter not the pain mine felt,
tis naught beside that feel,
That felt once does govrn' e're,
and cares not for hurt, if that,
Tis what it needs.





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