.
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    Mad song

The wild winds weep,
     And the night is a-cold;
Come hither. Sleep,
     And my griefs unfold:
But lo! the morning peeps
     Over the eastern steeps,
And the rustling birds of dawn
The earth do scorn.

Lo! to the vault
     Of paved heaven,
With sorrow fraught
     My notes are driven:
They strike the ear of night,
     Make weep the eyes of day;
They make mad the roaring winds,

     And with tempests play.

Like a fiend in a cloud,
     With the howling woe,
After night I do croud,
     And with night will go;
I turn my back to the ease,
From whence comforts have increas'd;
For light doth seize my brain
With frantic pain.

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