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Section 616
Passage 1 of 2 · section 616 of 635
1Ioh.
2Poyson'd, ill fare: dead, forsooke, cast off,
3And none of you will bid the winter come
4To thrust his ycie fingers in my maw;
5Nor let my kingdomes Riuers take their course
6Through my burn'd bosome: nor intreat the North
7To make his bleake windes kisse my parched lips,
8And comfort me with cold. I do not aske you much,