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- CXLVI
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- Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth,
- [ ] these rebel powers that thee array;
- Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth,
- Painting thy outward walls so costly gay?
- Why so large cost, having so short a lease,
- Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend?
- Shall worms, inheritors of this excess,
- Eat up thy charge? is this thy body’s end?
- Then soul, live thou upon thy servant’s loss,
- And let that pine to aggravate thy store;
- Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross;
- Within be fed, without be rich no more:
- So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men,
- And Death once dead, there’s no more dying then.
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