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If only feeble limbs can grow so numb
To satisfy thy merciless parched whip.
If only I do not bleed, never sob,
Perhaps, pour all thine anger in mine cup.
If only I could cower like a stomp
It never quirks no matter where ye hew.
He is content to flop; he know'st no pomp
It sits still. "Lo, the lashes turning few!"
But once the silent owns a voice, beware!
He ascertains to hold it quite for long
Ye may begin to lose thy grip, I swear
Irresolute limbs hath now sprung forth strong.
'Tis wrong to castigate thy very child;
All anger poured, turn' th hatred piled.