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 Thine ear, which his coming fears, Hears. The trot of his mule too soon. Soon

He'll punish thy shameless life, 'Slife! Ah! tremble! 'tis he! he is there! There!

In vain do the monk and the lover Over The manor walls seek to fly, To fly.

He seizes them 'neath the wall, All, And gives to his varlet old To hold.

His voice like the autumn storms, Storms: "Throw them both to the birds of prey, Pray!

Save the crows none shall find them sweet To eat! The tomb shall their bones receive This eve!

O yawn 'neath the churl of low birth, Earth! Thou fiend, who husbands dost flout, Out!