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Pale and distracted hither Walla runs,
As closely follow'd as she hardly shuns;
Her mantle off, her haire now too vnkinde
Almost betrai'd her with the wanton winde.
Breathlesse and faint she now some drops discloses,
As in a Limbeck the kinde sweat of Roses,
Such hang vpon her brest, and on her cheekes;
Or like the Pearles which the tand Æthiop seekes.
The Satyre (spur'd with lust) still getteth ground,
And longs to see his damn'd intention crown'd.