II.
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he storm-cloud, whose portentous shadeFumes from a core of smother’d fire,His livery is whose worshipp’d maidDenies herself to his desire.Ah, grief that almost crushes life,To lie upon his lonely bed,And fancy her another’s wife!His brain is flame, his heart is lead.Sinking at last, by nature’s course,Cloak’d round with sleep from his despair,He does but sleep to gather forceThat goes to his exhausted care.He wakes renew’d for all the smart.His only Love, and she is wed!His fondness comes about his heart,As milk comes, when the babe is dead.The wretch, whom she found fit for scorn,His own allegiant thoughts despise;And far into the shining mornLazy with misery he lies.
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