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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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