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Truly， my Satan， thou art but a dunce，
And dost not know the garment from the man;
Every harlot was a virgin once，
Nor canst thou ever change Kate into Nan.
Tho' thou art worship'd by the names divine
Of Jesus and Jehovah， thou art still
The Son of Morn in weary Night's decline，
The lost traveller's dream under the hill.
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