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Updated: May 24, 2025
My chilled limbs now nummed lye forlorn, Return, return sweet Sol, from Capricorn; In this dead time, alas, what can I more Than view those fruits which through thy heat I bore? Which sweet contentment yield me for a space, True, living Pictures of their Father's face.
With Smiling face and garments somewhat green, She trim'd her locks, which late had frosted been, Nor hot nor cold, she spake, but with a breath, Fit to revive, the nummed earth from death.
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