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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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Oh, the tangled webs we weave When we practice to deceive.
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The will to do, the soul to dare.
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To all, to each, a fair good night, And pleasing dreams, and slumbers light.
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Oh what a tangled web we weave, When first we practise to deceive!
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