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Even to weeping:—or the ghastly dead, By the more ghastly dying, whose last breath Pass'd in a prayer for water—but in vain,— O'er them their eager comrades hurry on To slaughter others. How thy cheek is blanch'd! I truly said these were no tales for thee. Come, take thy lute, and sing just one sweet song To fill my sleep with music.

Then good night. I have so much to say to my old nurse,— This is her annual visit, and she waits Within my chamber,—so one only song. My lute is tuneless with this damp night air.