VIII
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thence hurried on viewles wing, 50Take up a weeping on the Mountains wilde,The gentle neighbourhood of grove and springWould soon unboosom all their Echoes milde,And I (for grief is easily beguild)Might think th'infection of my sorrows bound,Had got a race of mourners on som pregnant cloud. Note: This subject the Author finding to be above the yeers he had,when he wrote it, and nothing satisfi'd with what was begun,left it unfinish'd.
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