Motley
Come, Death, I'd have a word with thee;And thou, poor Innocency;And love--a Lad with broken wing;And Pity, too:The Fool shall sing to you,As Fools will sing.Ay, music hath small sense,And a tune's soon told,And Earth is old,And my poor wits are dense;Yet have I secrets,--dark, my dear,To breathe you...
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