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Pack, clouds, away! and welcome, day!
Passing away, saith the World, passing away
Passions are liken'd best to floods and streams
Past ruin'd Ilion Helen lives
Patting goodbye, doubtless they told the lad
Perfect little body, without fault or stain on thee
Phoebus, arise!
Piping down the valleys wild
Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth
Proud Maisie is in the wood
Proud word you never spoke, but you will speak
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