XIX.
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ll that is perfect, which th’heaven beautefies;All that’s imperfect, borne belowe the moone;All that doth feede our spirits and our eies;And all that doth consume our pleasures soone;All the mishap the which our daies outweares;All the good hap of th’oldest times afore,Rome, in the time of her great ancesters,Like a Pandora, locked long in store.But destinie this huge chaos turmoyling,In which all good and evill was enclosed,Their heavenly vertues from these woes assoyling,Caried to heaven, from sinfull bondage losed:But their great sinnes, the causers of their paine,Under these antique ruines yet remaine.
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