‘Tis the year’s midnight, and it is the day’s,

Lucy’s, who scarce seven hours herself unmasks;

The sun is spent, and now its flasks

Send forth light squibs, no constant rays;

The world’s whole sap is sunk;

The general balm the hydroptic earth hath drunk,

Whither, as to the bed’s feet, life is shrunk,

Dead and interred; yet all these seem to laugh,

Compared with me, who am their epitaph.

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