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thou dost but jest, no envy in thy mind
no wonder or vexation for thy life
thy dowry shall be naught, thy children blind
thine air shall give a carrion for a wife

thy mortal breast it hath no battlement
thou art upon the mercy of a stage
the trifles that thou lovest are all lent
no curtsies will come to thee with age

but we the bards pluck storms and plagues like flowers
and know a nobler torment shall be ours


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