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Section 278
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Quin.
What art thou fallen?
What subtile Hole is this,
Whose mouth is couered with Rude growing Briers,
Vpon whose leaues are drops of new‑shed‑blood,
As fresh as mornings dew distil'd on
flowers,
A very fatall place it seemes to me:
Speake Brother hast thou hurt thee with the fall?