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No Music

 I'll tell you a sore truth, little understood
It's harder to leave, than to be left:
To stay, to leave, both sting wrong.
You will always have me to blame, Can dream we might have sailed on; From absence's rib, a warm fiction.
To tear up old love by the roots, To trample on past affections: There is no music for so harsh a song.

by John Montague
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