| Thou mighty gulf, insatiate cormorant
|
| Deride me not, thought I seem petulant
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| To fall into thy chops. |
| Let others pray
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| For ever their fair poems flourish may.
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| But as for me, hungry oblivion
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| Devour me quick, accept my orison
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| My earnest prayers
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| Which do importune thee,
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| With gloomy shade of thy still empery,
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| My earnest prayers
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| Which do importune thee,
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| To vail both me and my poesy
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| Far worthier lines in silence of thy state
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| Do sleep securely free from love or hate,
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| From which this living near can be exempt
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| But whilst it breathes
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| will hate and fury tempt
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| Then close his eyes
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| with thy all-dimming hand,
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| Which not right actions can withstand (2x)
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| Peace, hateful tongues
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| I now in silent pace
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| Unless some hounds
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| do wake me from my place
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| Then close his eyes
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| with thy all-dimming hand,
|
| Which not right actions can withstand (2x)
|
| I with this sharp, yet well meant poesy
|
| Will sleep secure, right free from injury
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| I with this sharp, yet well meant poesy
|
| Of cankered hate, or rankest villainy |