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Rh The impress of thy being kept; And if I waked, or if I slept, No doubt, though memory faithless be, Thy image ever dwelt on me; And thus, O Lionel, like thee Is our sweet child. 'Tis sure most strange I knew not of so great a change, As that which gave him birth, who now Is all the solace of my woe.

That Lionel great wealth had left By will to me, and that of all The ready lies of law bereft, My child and me might well befall. But let me think not of the scorn, Which from the meanest I have borne, When, for my child's beloved sake, I mixed with slaves, to vindicate The very laws themselves do make: Let me not say scorn is my fate, Lest I be proud, suffering the same With those who live in deathless fame.