557 She hideth Her the last— And is the first, to rise— Her Night doth hardly recompense The Closing of Her eyes— She doth Her Purple Work— And putteth Her away In low Apartments in the Sod - As worthily as We. To imitate her life As impotent would be As make of Our imperfect Mints, The Julep—of the Bee—SourceThe script ran 0.001 seconds.
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