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The bleakest rock upon the loneliest heath Feels, in its barrenness, some touch of spring; And, in the April dew, or beam of May, Its moss and lichen freshen and revive; And thus the heart, most sear'd to human pleasure, Melts at the tear, joys in the smile, of woman.
But if the canker-worm lies coil'd around The heart o' the bud, the summer sun and dew Visit in vain the sear'd and blighted flower.
May your horns multiply and grow as great As that which does blow grace before your meat; May varlets be your barbers now, and do The same to you they have been done unto; That's law and gospel too; may it prove true, Then they shall do pump-justice upon you; And when y' are shaved and powder'd you shall fall, Thrown o'er the Bar, as they did o'er the wall, Never to rise again, unless it be To hold your hands up for your roguery; And when you do so may they be no less Sear'd by the hangman than your consciences.
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