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Poem	CLARINDA, mistres of my soul, The measur’d time is run! The wretch beneath the dreary pole So marks his latest sun. To what dark cave of frozen night Shall poor Sylvander hie; Depriv’d of thee, his life and light, The sun of all his joy? We part—but by these precious drops, That fill thy lovely eyes, No other light shall guide my steps, Till thy bright beams arise! She, the fair sun of all her sex, Has blest my glorious day; And shall a glimmering planet fix My worship to its ray?
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