  If words were wingÈd arrows tipped with flame, Far-flying thro' the vast of time and space, If Erato should lend me some rare grace, Then might I dare to breathe in song your name. Ah, Player-king, unmoved by all renown, Acclaim and praise that wait upon your name, You pluck a laurel from the wreath of fame, Then, careless of the guerdon, cast it down. |
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