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72

"Who now, my poor mother, thy life shall sustain,  "Since thy son has thus left thee forlorn? "Ah! canst thou forgive me? And not in the pain "Of this cruel desertion, of William complain, "And lament that he ever was born?

"Sweet Phoebe!—if ever thy lover was dear,  "Now forsake not the cottage of woe, "But comfort my mother; and quiet her fear, "And help her to dry up the vain fruitless tear, "That too long for my absence will flow.