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116 Tis not the enemy, Satan, My gargoyle, carved in wood ; But Brother Anselmo, the cunning, the base, Who all my deeds withstood. 'Tis " Oh for a change in the spectres ! " My reeling soul doth sigh. Ho ! churl of a forester, welcome, my friend ! God sent you passing by. God, it is just, though 'tis bitter, That I should come to lie, Lonely and dry as a severed branch, Here in my wood to die. Yet hast Thou shown me Thy mercy Out of the herbs obscure Many a simple my hands have culled, Many an ill to cure. Now, by so much as I served them Count I my brethren kin ; Now, by so much as they loved me, Lord, Let me Thy pardon win.