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In Responce to Shakespeare's Sonnet 130

You claim my eyes be not like the sun,
That coral be far more red than my lips,
You mock till I have become undone,
All the while writing your quips,
About all cast out of your tender favor.
There again of me you speak well,
As your angry resolve begins to waver.
Now of my charms you seek to tell,
In backhanded complements, as is your way,
My faults are made into wondrous allures.
So, as you read this while you lay,
I leave you with one thought amour:
I must confess that I love you still,
Against my wishes and my will.





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