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Shakespearean Sonnet

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If the stars do yet hold some consequence,
There is doubt not in my mind to be found.
Where once was a feeling of pure resent,
To admiration am I now renowned.

The weed tended by the reticent hand
Of doubt has been quelled by fair Juliet.
Chaste red flower, do thee I understand,
To meeting thee do I have no regret.

The hanging stars in the imperfect sky
Hath not suffered such passion as we hath.
Lavishly weeping, for us doth they cry?
For affection will we forget deep wrath?

Doubt shall thus forth no longer play a part,
Decisions are meant to be for the heart.

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