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[Ah, ladies, you love to levy a tax]
 


387

[Ah, ladies, you love to levy a tax]

“Ah, ladies, you love to levy a tax
On my poor little paper parcel of fame;
Yet strange it seems that among you all
No one is willing to take my name—
To write and rewrite till the angels pity her,
The weariful words,
Thine truly, Whittier.”