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Death closes all; but something ere the end, Some work of noble note, may yet be done, Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
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O, why should Love, like men in drinking-songs, Spice his fair banquet with the dust of death?
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So many worlds, so much to do, so little done, such things to be.
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Ours not to reason why Ours but to do and die.
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'The old order changeth, yielding place to new And God fulfils Himself in many ways, Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.
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