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120

(834)
'If, Collatine, thine honour lay in me, (835)

From me by strong assault it is bereft. (836)

My honey lost, and I, a drone-like bee, (837)

Have no perfection of my summer left, (838)

But robb'd and ransack'd by injurious theft:
(839)
In thy weak hive a wandering wasp hath crept, (840)

And suck'd the honey which thy chaste bee kept.

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