XXVIII

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XXVIII

There was Lorenzo slain and buried in,

There in that forest did his great love cease;

Ah! when a soul doth thus its freedom win,

It aches in loneliness⁠—is ill at peace

As the break-covert bloodhounds of such sin:

They dipp’d their swords in the water, and did tease

Their horses homeward, with convulsed spur,

Each richer by his being a murderer.