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The Enemy Of Life

The enemy of life, decayer of all kind,

That with his cold withers away the green,

This other night me in my bed did find,

And offered me to rid my fever clean;

And I did grant, so did despair me blind.

He drew his bow with arrow sharp and keen,

And struck the place where love had hit before,

And drove the first dart deeper more and more.

by

Sir Thomas Wyatt