Then twangling their bibles with wrath in their nostrilsFrom Bonehill Fields came Bunyan and Blake:"Laredo the golden is fallen, is fallen;Your flame shall not quench nor your thirst shall not slake."
Be not afeard. The isle is full of noises, Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight, and hurt not. Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments Will hum about mine ears; and sometimes voices, That, if I then had wak'd after long sleep, Will make me sleep again; and then, in dreaming, The clouds methought would open and show riches Ready to drop upon me, that, when I wak'd, I cried to dream again.
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