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76 All that I can, to thee I give, And could I till to reaon live I were thy captive yet.

But paion's wild impetuous ea Hurries me far from peace and thee; 'Twere vain to truggle more: Thus the poor ailor lumbering lies, While welling tides around him rie, And puh his bark from hore.

In vain he preads his helples arms, His pitying friends with fond alarms In vain deplore his tate; Still far and farther from the coat, On the high urge his bark is tot, And foundering yields to fate.