Many, Foolish Things
Many, foolish decorated things
Coaches trouble every street,
They shall be forgotten, whom no poets sings,
Well wrapped up in their winding street?
Where to eternity shall give?
When nothing else remains these days,
Here after we shall be glad to live
Upon the alms of superfluous praise,
Virgins read these rhymes
So much delight with thy story,
They grieve and not live in these times.
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