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Even of five hundred courses of the sun,
A vengeful canker eat him up to death.
Poor soul, the centre of my speaking breast,
Therefore are feasts so solemn and so rare,
The crow, or dove, it shapes them to your feature.
Shall hate be fairer lodg'd than gentle love?
To trust those tables that receive thee more:
The humble as the ocean is,--
Giving him aid, my verse astonished.