XLV.
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ho hath not loiter'd in a green church-yard,And let his spirit, like a demon-mole,Work through the clayey soil and gravel hard,To see scull, coffin'd bones, and funeral stole;Pitying each form that hungry Death hath marr'd,And filling it once more with human soul?Ah! this is holiday to what was feltWhen Isabella by Lorenzo knelt. 360
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