from off a hill whose concave womb reworded a plaintful story from a sist’ring vale my spirits t’attend this double voice accorded and down i laid to list the sad tuned tale Ere long espied a fickle maid full pale tearing of papers breaking of rings atwain storming her world with sorrows wind and rain upon her head a platted hive of straw which fortified her visage from the sun whereon the thought might think sometime it saw the carcase of a beauty spent and done.time had not scythed all that youth begun nor youth all quit but spite of heavens fell rage some beauty peeped through lattice of seared age.
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