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He had a fever late, and in the fit He cursed thee and thine, both house and land:

Then there's that old Lord Maurice, not a whit

More tame for his gray hairs—Alas me! flit!

Flit like a ghost away."-"Ah, Gossip3 dear,

We're safe enough; here in this arm-chair sit,

And tell me how"-"Good Saints! not here, not here;

Follow me, child, or else these stones will be thy bier."

He followed through a lowly arched way, Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty plume;

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And as she muttered "Well-a-well-aday!"

He found him in a little moonlight room, Pale, latticed, chill, and silent as a tomb. "Now tell me where is Madeline," said he, "O tell me, Angela, by the holy loom Which none but secret sisterhood may see, When they St. Agnes' wool are weaving piously."

St. Agnes! Ah! it is St. Agnes' EveYet men will murder upon holy days: Thou must hold water in a witch's sieve, And be fiege-lord of all the Elves and Fays,

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