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For with the nightly linen that she wears (681)

He pens her piteous clamours in her head; (682)

Cooling his hot face in the chastest tears (683)

That ever modest eyes with sorrow shed. (684)

O, that prone lust should stain so pure a bed!
The spots whereof could weeping purify, (686)

Her tears should drop oh them perpetually.

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