| Why are you standing here all alone in front of the
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| Gates and moaning to yourself over your misfortune?
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| Why are you standing here, alone, in front of the gates?
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| When the wars are done
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| The poet speaks with equal persuasiveness
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| On the wastes and misery that follow great conflicts
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| And pleads for tranquil times
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| Two loves I have, of comfort and despair
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| Which like two spirits do suggest me still
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| The better angel is a man right fair
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| The worser spirit a woman coloured ill
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| How many make the hour full complete;
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| How many hours bring about the day;
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| How many days will finish up the year;
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| How many years a mortal man may live
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| When this is known, then to divide the times:
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| So many hours must I contemplate;
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| So many hours must I sport myself;
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| So many days my ewes have been with young;
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| So many weeks ere the poor fools will ean:
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| So many years ere I shall shear the fleece:
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| So minutes, hours, days, months, and years
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| Pass’d over to the end they were created
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| Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave
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| Ah, what a life were this! |
| how sweet! |
| how lovely! |