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and lament me in vain,

theſe walls can but echo my moan,

Alas! it increaſes my pain,

when I think on the days that are gone.

Through the grate of my priſon I ſee

the birds as they wanton in air,

My heart how it pants to be free,

my looks they are wild with deſpair.

Above, though oppreſt by my fate,

I burn with contempt for my foes,

Though Fortune has alter'd my ſtate,

ne'er can ſubdue me to thoſe.

Falſe woman, in ages to come,

thy malice deteſted ſhall be,

And when we are cold in the tomb,

heart will ſtill ſorrow for me.

Ye roofs where cold damps and diſmay,

with ſilence and ſolitude dwell,

How comfortleſs paſſes the day?

how ſadly tolls the evening bell?

The owls from the battlement cry,

hollow winds ſeem to murmur around,

O MARY! prepare thee to die,

my blood it runs cold at the ſound.