
XCVII “How like a winter hath my absence been From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year What freezing have I felt, what dark days seen With old December's bareness everywhere. And yet this time remov'd was summer's time The teeming Autumn big with rich increase, Bearing the wanton burthen of the prime, Like widowed wombs after their Lord's decease. Yet this abundant issue seem’d to me, But hope of Orphans, and unfathered fruit, For Summer and his pleasures wait on thee,
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Who Is Hiding
XCVII
Bescreen'd
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The Night, Then Him
So Death Would Be Just a Bad Dream
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