Ah for pittie, wil ranke Winters rage, These bitter blasts neuer ginne tasswage? The keene cold blowes throug my beaten hyde, All as I were through the body gryde. My ragged rontes all shiver and shake, As doen high Towers in an earthquake: They wont in the wind wagge their wrigle tailes, Perke as Peacock: but nowe it auales.
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