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Come, thick Night, / And pall thee in the dunnest smoake of Hell, / That my keene Knife see not the Wound it makes, / Nor Heaven peepe through the Blanket of the darke, / To cry, hold, hold.
Come, thick Night, / And pall thee in the dunnest smoake of Hell, / That my keene Knife see not the Wound it makes, / Nor Heaven peepe through the Blanket of the darke, / To cry, hold, hold.