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In vain attempts the woeful wight
That would despair remove;
is little finger has more weight
Than all the loins of love.

Thus the poor wretch that left his dome
With spirit foul accurst,
Found sev'n, returning late, at home,
More dreadful than the first.
Tell hop'd I, once, that constancy
Might soften rigour's frown,
Could from the chains of hate set free,
And pay my ransom down.

But, ah! the judge is too severe,
I sink beneath his ire;
The sentence is gone forth, to bear
Despair's eternal fire.
The hopes of sinners in the day
Of grace their fears abate;
But ev'ry hope flies far away,
When mercy shuts her gate.

The smallest alms could not suffice
Love's hunger to assuage;
Despair, the worm that never dies,
Still gnaws with ceaseless rage.