Where the poor houseless shivering female lies:
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he once, perhaps, in village plenty blest, Has wept at tales of innocence distrest; [Illustration: 0075] Her modest looks the cottage might adorn, Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn; {039} Now lost to all; her friends, her virtue fled, Near her betrayer's door she lays her head, And, pinch'd with cold, and shrinking from the shower,
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