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, 2 T T T
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Was it the | proud full sail | of his / great
verse,
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Bound for the | prize of | all too prec|ious
you,
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That did | my ripe | thoughts in | my brain |
inhearse,
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Making | their tomb | the womb | wherein | they
grew?
,
x , ,
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Was it | his spirit,| by spir|its taught | to
write
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Above | a mort|al pitch,| that struck | me dead?
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No* neith|er he, | nor* his | compeers | by night
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Giving | him aid,| my verse | aston|ished.
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He nor | that af|fable | famil|iar ghost
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Which^night|ly gulls | him with | intel|ligence,
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As vic|tors of | my sil|ence can|not boast;
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I was | not^sick | of an|y fear | from thence:
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But when | your count|enance | filled^up | his
line,
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Then lacked | I mat|ter; that | enfeeb|led mine.