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In this life he laughs longest who laughs last.
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They change, and we, who pass like foam, Like dust blown through the streets of Rome, Change ever, too; we have no home,
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But gathering as we stray, a sense Of Life, so lovely and intense,...
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His face was filled with broken commandments.
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Since the printing press came into being, poetry has ceased to be the delight of the whole community of man; it has become the amusement and delight of the few.
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