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To Edward Fitzgerald

 I chanced upon a new book yesterday;
I opened it, and, where my finger lay
'Twixt page and uncut page, these words I read -
Some six or seven at most - and learned thereby
That you, Fitzgerald, whom by ear and eye
She never knew, "thanked God my wife was dead.
" Aye, dead! and were yourself alive, good Fitz, How to return you thanks would task my wits.
Kicking you seems the common lot of curs - While more appropriate greeting lends you grace, Surely to spit there glorifies your face - Spitting from lips once sanctified by hers.

Poem by Robert Browning
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