Words to my love

Thou art my lord and I the slave,
in thy palms are orbs to my fate;
sweet sweet air in thy power to gift,
or Laertes edge to end this day.

Yet nothing else but I to accuse,
’tis thy will let me be saved;
no reprise nor perish shall do thee wrong,
no remorse nor grief for all I done.

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Published in: on 04/06/2012 at 8:31 PM  Leave a Comment  

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