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Poem by Francis Beaumont
The Author to the Reader
I sing the fortune of a luckless pair, Whose spotless souls now in one body be; For beauty still is Prodromus to care, Crost by the sad stars of nativity: And of the strange enchantment of a well, Given by the Gods, my sportive muse doth write, Which sweet-lipp'd Ovid long ago did tell, Wherein who bathes, straight turns Hermaphrodite: I hope my poem is so lively writ, That thou wilt turn half-mad with reading it.
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