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Ay me! how many perils doe enfold The righteous man, to make him daily fall. Who will not mercie unto others show, How can he mercie ever hope to have? I was promised on a time To have reason for my rhyme; From that time unto this season I received nor rhyme nor reason. And more to lull him in his slumber soft, A trickling stream from high rock tumbling down, And ever drizzling rain upon the loft, Mixed with a murmuring wind much like the sound Of swarming bees, did cast him in a swoon. No other noise, nor people's troublous cries As still are wont t' annoy the walled town Might there be heard; but careless Quiet lies, Wrapt in eternal silence, far from enemies. |