IV.
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hilde Harold basked him in the Noontide sun,[r]Disporting there like any other fly;Nor deemed before his little day was doneOne blast might chill him into misery.But long ere scarce a third of his passed by,Worse than Adversity the Childe befell;He felt the fulness of Satiety:Then loathed he in his native land to dwell,Which seemed to him more lone than Eremite's sad cell.
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