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That I go forth, lest folk misdoubt of it.

Afterward, calling with a sore lament

On Beatrice, I ask, "Canst thou be dead?"

And calling on her, I am comforted.

Grief with its tears, and anguish with its sighs,

Come to me now whene'er I am alone;

So that I think the sight of me gives pain.

And what my life hath been, that living dies,

Since for my lady the New Birth's begun,

I have not any language to explain.

And so, dear ladies, though my heart were fain,

I scarce could tell indeed how I am thus.

All joy is with my bitter life at war;

Yea, I am fallen so far

That all men seem to say, "Go out from us,"

Eyeing my cold white lips, how dead they are.

But she, though I be bowed unto the dust,

Watches me; and will guerdon me, I trust.