Penelope that longed for the sight, of her Ulisses, wandrying all to long, felt never joy, wherein she tooke delyght, although she lyv'd in greatest joyes among, so I poore wretch, posesing that I crave, both live and lacke, by wrong of that I have. Then blame me not, although to heavens I cry, and pray the gods, that shortly I myght dye.
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