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My thoughts hold mortal strife; I do detest my life, And with lamenting cries Peace to my soul to bring Oft call that prince which here doth monarchize: But he, grim grinning King, Who caitiffs scorns, and doth the blest surprise, Late having decked with beauty's rose his tomb, Disdains to crop a weed, and will not come.
William Henry Drummond
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Monday, January 13, 2003 |
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