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His Aunt fell ick for very dole to ee Her kindet counels cornd, and ore did pine To think what well he knew would hortly be, Cadwallins bloud debasd in Kathrins line; For very dole he died. Oh ad propine, Syr Knight, for all that care which he did take! How many a night, for coughs and colds of thine, Has he at up rare cordial broths to make, And cockerd thee o kind with many a daintie cake!

Soft as the goamer in ummer hades Extends its twinkling line from pray to pray, Gently as leep the weary lids invades, So oft, o gently Pleaure mines her way: But whither will the miling Fiend betray, Ah, let the Knights approaching dayes declare! Though everie bloome and flowre of buxom May Betrew her path, to dearts cold and bare The mazy path betrays the giddy wight unware.