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Impudent whoore, where hast thou plac'd thy hope?
In thy Adulterers, or thy ill got wealth?
Another Constantine comes not in hast.
PETRARCA, Son. 108.
And to be short, at last his guid him brings
Into a goodly valley, where he sees
A mighty mass of things strangely confus'd
Things that on earth were lost or were abus'd.
.
. . . .
Then past he to a flowry Mountain green,
Which once smelt sweet, now stinks as odiously;
This was that gift (if you the truth will have)
That Constantine to good Sylvestro gave.
ARIOSTO, Orl. Fur. xxxiv. 80.
[From Reason of Church Government, 1641.]
When I die, let the Earth be roul'd in flames.
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