Two Poets
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FT HE love-mad lark you sing of swooned,”they said,“And speared his bosom on a thorn oflastYear’s rose; cease playing Orpheus; no blastYou blow can raise Eurydice once dead.Our ears are cloyed with songs our fathersheardOf how your lady’s face and form were fair;Put by your fluting; swell a martial air,And spur us on with some prophetic word.” So, wearying, he changed his tune, and won
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