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Sonnet CXLVIII â To She Whose Ink Doth Shade My Sight
When sable quill did trace thy visage fair,
And Night herself grew jealous of thy skin,
I knew thee not as muse, but masked despair,
Whose grace concealâd a wilful shade within.
Thou art no shadow born of wanton lie,
Nor Venusâ slave, nor Egyptâs dusky queen,
But she whom Oxfordâs eye did oft espy,
In Fleetâs dim court, where secrets wax unseen.
Thy name is Bess, a scrivenerâs bold delight...
Monday 16th June 2025 3:07 pm
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