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And lips say God be pitiful, who never said, God be praised.
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'Guess now who holds thee?'—'Death,' I said. But, there, The silver answer rang, . . . 'Not Death, but Love.'
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Hurt a fly! He would not for the world: he's pitiful to flies even. Sing, says he, and tease me still, if that's your way, poor insect.
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For 'tis not in mere death that men die most.
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Measure not the work until the day's out and the labor done.
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