From the contagion of the world's slow stain 5 He is secure; and now can never mourn A heart grown cold, a head grown grey in vain-- Nor, when the spirit's self has ceased to burn, With sparkless ashes load an unlamented urn. 41.
His dwarf, a vicious under-shapen thing, / Struck at her with his whip, and she return'd / Indignant to the Queen; […]
[…] thy broome-groues; Whose shadow the dismissed Batchelor loues, Being lasse-lorne:
And by the merit of vile gold, dross, dust.
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