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Here with a cockatrice's dead-killing eye (541)

He rouseth up himself and makes a pause; (542)

While she, the picture of pure piety, (543)

Like a white hind under the gripe's sharp claws, (544)

Pleads, in a wilderness where are no laws,
To the rough beast that knows no gentle right, (546)

Nor aught obeys but his foul appetite.

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