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1My heart, why dost thou throb so in my breast?
2What, dost thou ail? What causeth thy unrest?
3Dost thou not know that, as the flames ascend,
4So man in sorrow doth begin and end?
sprightly1lark, how cheerfully she sings,
6Until the hawk her little neck off wrings;
7Yet thou to sigh and sob dost never cease
8Because thy sorrows with thy years increase.
9The milk-white lamb that on the altar lies
10Yields himself up a quiet sacrifice;
11But thou wouldst have the course of nature turn
12Rather than in affliction’s furnace burn.
assume3her funeral pyre,
14And in those
flagrant4odors doth expire;
15But thou, my soul, unwilling art to die,
16And in thy grave
17Although it would thy
18Away, and infinitely refine
19Thy flesh, that it more gloriously may shine.