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Who,--raging with thy tears and they with them,-- The cry is still, "They come:" our castle's strength Weep our sad bosoms empty. And cry "O Clarence, my unhappy son!" And that dear saint which then I weeping follow'd; Tears in his eyes, distraction in's aspect, Cries cuckold to my father; brands the harlot And wet his grave with my repentant tears,-- My fate cries out, With tears augmenting the fresh morning's dew, That he should weep for her? What would he do,