Joe Macclesfield
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Then as a bee which among weeds doth fall,
Which seem sweet flowers, with lustre fresh and gay;
She lights on that, and this, and tasteth all,
But pleas’d with none, doth rise, and soar away
Which seem sweet flowers, with lustre fresh and gay;
She lights on that, and this, and tasteth all,
But pleas’d with none, doth rise, and soar away
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