What's more, I, in the confine of rest, on a more interesting's bosom,
Shed tears, similar to an errand not to be secured
In the false light, false pain in my glad bed,
A work of tears, set against satisfaction's demise.
I would not wake at your pledge, I had tears to state.
I clung to the bars of the fantasy and they were stated,
What's more, torment's contemptuous hand had given me rest
From the night emitting flares, and the dull restoring.
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