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Oft thou hast with greedy ear, Drunk my notes and words of pleasure. In affection's equal measure, Now my songs of sorrow hear. Since from thee my griefs do grow, Whom alive I priz'd so dear: The more my joy, the more my woe. Music, though it sweetens pain, Yet no whit impairs lamenting: But in passions like consenting, Makes them constant that complain: And enchants their fancies so, That all comforts they disdain, The more my joy, the more my woe. |