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written by Anna Wickham
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Poor body that was crushed in stays,
Through many real-seeming days,
You are free in the grave.
You held a ghost 'neath roof and law
Well by contrivance and by wit and saw.
All storms that rage now strike your mould,
Now dead, now low, now cold;
And air, turned foe, your ready breath forgot,
Shall wanton with you till you rot.

Poor bodies crushed in stays,
Think of the rotting days!

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