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Rh

To view the light of day; it is too much, Too much of happiness to see thee pine And wither in this poisonous atmosphere? And will they, can they tear thee from me, slake Their hands in thy warm blood? My crime demands The forfeit of my life, and I must bend With meekness to the just decree—'tis hard, 'Tis painful to relinquish in my prime The bliss that earth can give, to call thee wife— To see my children hang about my knees— Oh, Veronica, murderer as I am, How dare I dream of such felicity? Alas! how pale and haggard is that brow, So lofty once. Sorrow, my best beloved, Has done the work of age: we should not long Burthen this cruel world, our stricken hearts Would break together. I could see thee die