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Who stolen hast away the wings wherewith I was to top the heavens. Dear maid, sith Thou art my executioner, and I feel Loving and hatred, misery and weal, Will in a few short hours be nothing to me, And all my story that much passion slew me; Do smile upon the evening of my days; And, for my tortured brain begins to craze. Be thou my nurse; and let me understand How dying I shall kiss that lily hand.— Dost weep for me! Then should I be content. Scowl on, ye fates! until the firmament Outblackens Erebus, and the full-cavern'd earth Crumbles into itself. By the cloud-girth Of Jove, those tears have given me a thirst To meet oblivion."—As her heart would burst The maiden sobb'd awhile, and then replied: "Why must such desolation betide As that thou speakest of? Are not these green nooks Empty of all misfortune? Do the brooks Utter a gorgon voice? Does yonder thrush, Schooling its half-fledged little ones to brush About the dewy forest, whisper tales?— Speak not of grief, young stranger, or cold snailsnails [sic] Will slime the rose to-night. Though if thou wilt, Methinks 'twould be a guilt—a very guilt— Not to companion thee, and sigh away The light—the dusk—the dark—till break of day." "Dear lady," said Endymion, "'tis past: I love thee! and my days can never last. That I may pass in patience still speak; Let me have music dying, and I seek