A bother Are my brethren; Heavens, what a shame! Why cling to some Dry hill of dung In mirth as twits, my brethren? You live thus: To play, Hours wasted, fled, And give to what must pass As though it would outlast us. Bands led on by titillation Strut de-livered, less than people: “More wine is the thing; come, Pour, and with glee! Whatever for pleasure – Aye, men?”
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Very good Will!