Thursday, August 16, 2007

Is not their climate foggy, raw and dull,On whom, as in despite, the sun looks pale?

The poor condemned English,
Like sacrifices, by their watchful fires
Sit patiently and inly ruminate
The morning's danger, and their gesture sad
Investing lank-lean; cheeks and war-worn coats
Presenteth them unto the gazing moon
So many horrid ghosts.

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