The brisk fond lackey to fetch and carry, The true, sick-hearted slave,...

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The mortal sickness of a mind too unhappy to be kind.

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Ale, man, ale's the stuff to drink for fellows whom it hurts to think.

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East and west on fields forgotten Bleach the bones of comrades slain,...

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The troubles of our proud and angry dust are from eternity, and shall not fail. Bear them we can, and if we can we must. Shoulder the sky, my lad, and drink your ale.

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