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 And now all in mine own Countrée
 * I stood on the firm land!

The Hermit stepp'd forth from the boat,
 * And scarcely he could stand.

"O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy Man!
 * The Hermit cross'd his brow—

"Say quick," quoth he, "I bid thee say
 * "What manner man art thou?

Forthwith this frame of mine was wrench'd
 * With a woeful agony,

Which forc'd me to begin my tale
 * And then it left me free.

Since then at an uncertain hour,
 * Now oftimes and now fewer,

That anguish comes and makes me tell
 * My ghastly aventure.