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Poem	Unto whose use the pregnant suns are poised, With idiot moons and stars retracting stars? Creep thou between -- thy coming's all unnoised. Heaven hath her high, as Earth her baser, wars. Heir to these tumults, this affright, that fray (By Adam's, fathers', own, sin bound alway); Peer up, draw out thy horoscope and say Which planet mends thy threadbare fate, or mars.
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