"son gone" #17

all her sails court all the winds scent of perfume, her train behind some may have declin'd a surcharg' dew wetting her silk, she speaks thy pleasure I cannot expiate the perverse event slack affection and timorous desir one more face may serve what suffers. My unfortunate Hyaena feign'd remorse. I wonder how far virtue transgresses? Again submit: wisest and best beguil'd principl'd reject