There growes the flowre of peace, The Rose that cannot wither,
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But thou beneath the sad and heavy line Of death, doth waste all senseless, cold, and dark;...
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Then whisper by that holy spring, Where for her sake I would have died,...
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Caesar had perished from the world of men, had not his sword been rescued by his pen.
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Dear, beauteous Death! the jewel of the just, Shining nowhere, but in the dark;
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'Lord,' then said I, 'on me one breath, And let me die before my death!'
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"Lord," then said I, "on me one breath, And let me die before my death!"
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