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 And waiteth there? . . . Admit him then:

Who hunts the panther to his den

Flies not the panther's rage.

. . . Fool! fool! Thou deem’st it wise to beard

Our fury? . . . Gods! the face I feared!

At height of bloom, so cometh blight.

Avaunt! avaunt, thou withering sight!

Eternal pains begin:

I swoon to Hell's abysmal night,—

Ah, horror!—Back, my Sin!