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Up from thy sweet mouth,-up to I never was worthy of you, Douglas;

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May rise like a giant and make men bow

As to one heaven-chosen amongst his peers:

My Saul, than thy brethren taller and fairer

Let me behold thee in future years; Yet thy head needeth a circlet rarer, Philip, my king.

-A wreath not of gold, but palm. One day,

Philip, my king, Thou too must tread, as we trod, a way

Thorny and cruel and cold and gray: Rebels within thee and foes without, Will snatch at thy crown. But march on, glorious, Martyr, yet monarch; till angels shout [victorious, As thou sit'st at the feet of God "Philip, the king!"

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Not half worthy the like of you: Now all men beside seem to me like shadows,

I love you, Douglas, tender and

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