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A mother's pride, a father's joy.
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But search the land of living men,Where wilt thou find their like again?
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Woman's faith and woman's trust,Write the characters in dust.
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A miss is as good as a mile.
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I am she, O most bucolical juvenal, under whose charge are placed the milky mothers of the herd.
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Spangling the wave with lights as vainAs pleasures in the vale of pain,That dazzle as they fade.
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No pale gradations quench his ray,No twilight dews his wrath allay.
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And better had they ne'er been born,Who read to doubt, or read to scorn.