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Section 434
Passage 1 of 1 · section 434 of 818
1Perd.
2Sir, the yeare growing ancient,
3Not yet on summers death, nor on the birth
4Of trembling winter, the fayrest flowres o’th season
5Are our Carnations, and streak’d Gilly‑vors,
6(Which some call Natures bastards) of that kind
7Our rusticke Gardens barren, and I care not
8To get slips of them.