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Despite those titles, power, and pelf, The wretch, concentred all in self, Living, shall forfeit fair renown, And, doubly dying, shall go down To the vile dust, from whence he sprung, Unwept, unhonor'd, and unsung.
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Is death the last step? No, it is the final awakening.
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And come he slow, or come he fast, It is but death who comes at last.
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Oh, what tangled webs we weave, When we first practice to deceive.
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The will to do, the soul to dare.
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