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 YING, and loth to die, and longed to die ; Is there no pity, O my land, my land ? Is it as naught to you, ye passers-by ? Will ye not, for a moment, listening stand ? Who shall come after me, is what ye pray; Truly ye have not spared me all my days. Tudor, the grand old race, may pass away : Stuart the weak and false, awaits your praise. Essex, my murdered darling, tender one, Should have been here, my people, but for you ; Now he but haunts me, — oh my son, my son ! Would that the queen had erred, the friend been true