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Chose I the lady wrong, and sick have I become
So sick as Echo is, who never is so numbed
Though if she be released, I know I should not come.
These rays, they spill in curves onto the earth
And quell my speeding nerves with what stifling girth
Like her you cannot hold, nor speak to it in mirth.
Young Phaethon should not have chased his ghost
And flown the sun, though it does burn with godly boast,
But burns yet still. What prophecy; Fate makes poor host!
To don the frightly mask of comedy
Of Thalia, but cry with sad Melpomene,
We dance upon the stage a sickly jubilee -
For what was winter then is winter still
And I, with but a girl, can feel the winter chill
As she with child lies on some small distant hill.