IX.
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nd when thy melted maid,Corrupted by thy Lover's gold, and page, 50His letter at thy pillow'hath laid,Disputed it, and tam'd thy rage,And thou begin'st to thaw towards him, for this,May my name step in, and hide his.
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— William Blake
Does the Eagle know what is in the pit?
Or wilt thou go ask the Mole:
Can Wisdom be put in a silver rod?
Or Love in a golden bowl?
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