< Page:Elegiac Sonnets The Third Edition.pdf
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For still she bids soft Pity's melting eye
Stream o'er the ills she knows not to remove,
Points every pang, and deepens every sigh
Of mourning friendship, or unhappy love.
Ah! then, how dear the Muse's favors cost,
(a) If those paint sorrow best -- who feel it most!
SONNET
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