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Ed. And let it enter! it shall not be stopp'd. Who visits me besides the winds of heaven? Who mourns with me but the sad-sighing wind? Who bringeth to mine ear the mimick'd tones Of voices once belov'd and sounds long past But the light-wing'd and many voiced wind? Who fans the prisoner's lean and fever'd cheek As kindly as the monarch's wreathed brows But the free piteous wind? I will not have it stopp'd.

Keep. My Lord, the winter now creeps on apace; Hoar frost this morning, on our shelter'd fields Lay thick, and glanced to the up-risen sun. Which scarce had power to melt it.

Ed. Glanced to th' up-risen sun! Ay, such fair morns, When ev'ry bush doth put its glory on, Like to a gemmed bride! your rustics, now, And early hinds, will set their clouted feet Thro' silver webs, so bright and finely wrought As royal dames ne'er fashion'd, yet plod on Their careless way, unheeding. Alas, how many glorious things there be To look upon! Wear not the forests, now, Their latest coat of richly varied dyes?

Keep. Yes, good my Lord, the cold chill year advances, Therefore, I pray you, let me close that wall.

Ed. I tell thee no, man; if the north air bites, Bring me a cloak.—Where is thy dog to day?