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Breathes there the man with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land!
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Credit is like a looking-glass, which when once sullied by a breath, may be wiped clear again; but if once cracked can never be repaired.
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To all, to each, a fair good night, And pleasing dreams, and slumbers light.
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Is death the last step? No, it is the final awakening.
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To the timid and hesitating everything is impossible because it seems so.
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