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Ask not why hearts turn Magazines of passions, And why that grief is clad in several fashions; Why she on progress goes, and doth not borrow The small'st respite from the extreams of sorrow, Her misery is got to such an height, As makes the earth groan to support its weight, Such storms of woe, so strongly have beset her, She hath no place for worse, nor hope for better Her comfort is, if any for her be, That none can shew more cause of grief then she.
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