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CXV

THE ECLIPSE

Whither, O whither didst thou fly?

When did I grieve Thine holy eye,

When Thou didst mourn to see me lost,

And all Thy care and counsels crost?

O do not grieve, where'er Thou art!

Thy grief is an undoing smart,

Which doth not only pain, but break

My heart, and makes me blush to speak.

Thy anger I could kiss, and will;

But--O--Thy grief, Thy grief, doth kill!

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