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Rh He, while the dove was cooking, spoke What from his heart a passage broke:

None loves his soul, 'tis very plain, Who smears it with a sinful stain. The soul commits the sin; and late Or soon, the soul must expiate.

My thoughts are evil; my desire Is ever set on what is dire: It needs but little wit to tell I steer my course for ghastly hell.

A moral lesson let me draw From what my savage spirit saw. The high-souled dove, that I may eat, Has sacrificed himself for meat.

Henceforth let all enjoyment be An unfamiliar thing to me; I’ll share the shallow water's fate In August; will evaporate.

Cold, wind, and heat I will embrace, Grow thin and dirty, form and face, Will fast by every method known, Seek virtue, perfect and alone."

The fowler then apieces tore Club, peg, net, cage—and what is more, Set free the wretched female dove Who sorrowed for her perished love.

But she, released from clutches dire, Beheld her husband in the fire; Whereat she gave expression so To thoughts of horror and of woe: