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TRANSLATIONS FROM PETRARCH.
231
Whose sustenance doth fail by slow degrees,
Wearing onto the end, its wonted plight
Not pale, but whiter than the snow one sees
Flaking a hillside through the windless air.
lake one overwearied, she reposed in peace
As 't were a sweet sleep filled each lovely eye.
The soul already having fled from there.
And this is what dull fools have named to die.
Upon her fair face death itself seemed fair.
