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And would'st thou have me live, Eiizabeth, Forlorn and sad, in lothly dungeon pent, Kept from the very use of mine own limbs, A poor, lost, caged thing?

Would not I live with thee? would not I cheer thee? Would'st thou be lonely then? would'st thou be sad? I'd clear away the dark unwholesome air, And make a little parlour of thy cell. With cheerful labour eke our little means, And go abroad at times to fetch thee in The news and passing stories of the day. I'd read thee books: I'd sit and sing to thee: And every thing would to our willing minds Some observation bring to cheer our hours. Yea, ev'n the varied voices of the wind O' winter nights would be a play to us. Nay, turn not from me thus, my gentle Rayner! How many suffer the extremes of pain, Ay, lop their limbs away, in lowest plight Few years to spend upon a weary couch With scarce a friend their sickly draughts to mingle! And dost thou grudge to spend thy life with me?

I could live with thee in a pitchy mine;