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Our very hopes belied our fears, Our fears our hopes belied; We thought her dying when she slept, And sleeping when she died.
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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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Oh, if it be to choose and call thee mine, love, thou art every day my Valentine!
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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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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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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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So mayst thou live, dear! many years, In all the bliss that life endears
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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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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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For my part, getting up seems not so easy By half as lying.
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A man that's fond precociously of stirring, Must be a spoon.