Bid The Dishonest Man Mend

The Hideous God Of War.

O, Then, What Graces In My Love Do Dwell, That He Hath Turn'd A Heaven Unto Hell

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O, What A World Of Vile Ill-favored Faults, Looks Handsome In Three Hundred Pounds A Year!

The Pow'r That I Have On You Is To Spare You; The Malice Towards You To Forgive You.