In-Text |
straight this flint softens into flesh, these jars kisse in a sweet concord, this rough Ocean doth cease to rage, that Gilboah is cloath'd in Greene, where but now no blade was, not a leafe of grasse to apparell it: |
straight this flint softens into Flesh, these jars kiss in a sweet concord, this rough Ocean does cease to rage, that gilboa is clothed in Green, where but now no blade was, not a leaf of grass to apparel it: |
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