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Rh Yet round his gloomy cell, with chalk he scrawls Ships, coaches, crownes, and eke the gallow tree; All that he wishd or feard his ghastlie walls Present him still, and mock his miserie. And there, self-doomd, his cursed selfe to flee, The Gamester hangs in corner murk and dread; Nigh to the ground bends his ungratious knee; His drooping armes and white-reclining head Dim seen, cold Horror gleams athwart th'unhallowed shade.

Near the dreare gate, beneath the rifted rock, The Keeper of the Cave all haggard satt, His pining corse a restlesse ague shook, And blistering sores did all his carkas frett: All with himselfe he seemd in keen debate; For still the muscles of his mouthe he drew Ghastly and fell; and still with deepe regrate He lookd him round, as if his heart did rew His former deeds, and mournd full sore his sores to view.