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He wants, he asks, he pleads his poverty, They within doors do him an alms deny. |
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Upon the Sun's Reflection Upon the Clouds in A Fair Morning |
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Look yonder, ah! methinks mine eyes do see Clouds edged with silver, as fine garments be; |
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Our Father which in heaven art, Thy name be always hallowed; |
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Wouldst thou have that good, that blessed mind, That is so much to heavenly things inclin'd |
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Look, look, brave Sol doth peep up from beneath, Shows us his golden face, doth on us breathe; |
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