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Rh Why place me, traitor, near his sacred side? Trust me the bag? his secret counsels teach? Perchance to sway me by his goodness 'twas, And lead me to repent. Alas! that goodness, How it burns within! like coals of fire heap'd Upon the head, and urges to relent. But, woe is me! that goodness how I hate! Nor less his look of innocence and love, So calm dispensed from peaceful brow serene; And so perhaps, when most oppress'd with care. His tender accents too, forgiving words— (O heav'n! what torture doth the thought inflict,) Fresh streams of grace on obdurate let fall, Let freely fall; the callous more, the more To penance moved, by grace profuse besought. High as the heav'ns by grace received uplift, By grace contemn'd, to lowest hell thrust down. Thou hell! wilt thou not here withhold thy hand? Nor shrink the fearful task? or, if perform, Some other instrument devise than me, One of his friends profess'd, his bosom friends? Nor cease to urge repeat the crime of Cain, Repeat, with base augment and tenfold shame?— But, should I shrink, how ease my just revenge For public scorn, open rebuke, on me Unjust imposed, with all the rest, who plead The poor man's cause, when he the precious nard Let run to waste? Or, how increase my store? (To me chief aim to follow his behests;) Whence multiply my gains? Could I, secure Of other pelf abide, I might relent, And seeming be most steadfast of his friends.