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But evil is wrought by want of thought, As well as want of heart!
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It was not in the winter Our loving lot was cast! It was the time of roses, We plucked them as we passed!
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Oh would I were dead now, Or up in my bed now, To cover my head now, And have a good cry!
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Mother of light! how fairly dost thou go Over those hoary crests, divinely led! Art thou that huntress of the silver bow Fabled of old? Or rather dost thou tread Those cloudy summits thence to gaze below, Like the wild chamois from her Alpine snow, Where hunters never climbed--secure from dread?
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No blessed leisure for love or hope, But only time for grief.
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Oh, if it be to choose and call thee mine, love, thou art every day my Valentine!
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Alas for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun!
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Some minds improve by travel, others, rather, resemble copper wire, or brass, which get the narrower by going farther.
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When Eve upon the first of Men The apple press'd with specious cant, Oh! what a thousand pities then That Adam was not Adamant!
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How widely its agencies vary,- To save, to ruin, to curse, to bless,- As even its minted coins express, Now stamp'd with the image of Good Queen Bess, And now of a Bloody Mary.
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For my part, getting up seems not so easy By half as lying.
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Lives of great men oft remind us as we o'er their pages turn, That we too may leave behind us - Letters that we ought to burn.
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So mayst thou live, dear! many years, In all the bliss that life endears
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A man that's fond precociously of stirring, Must be a spoon.