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Richard Lovelace - Oreheus To Woods
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Heark!  Oh heark! you guilty trees,
In whose gloomy galleries
Was the cruell`st murder done,
That e`re yet eclipst the sunne.
Be then henceforth in your twigges
Blasted, e`re you sprout to sprigges;
Feele no season of the yeere,
But what shaves off all your haire,
Nor carve any from your wombes
Ought but coffins and their tombes.
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