Dear Friends
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ear friends, reproach me not for what I do,Nor counsel me, nor pity me; nor sayThat I am wearing half my life awayFor bubble-work that only fools pursue.And if my bubbles be too small for you,Blow bigger then your own: the games we playTo fill the frittered minutes of a day,Good glasses are to read the spirit through. And whoso reads may get him some shrewd skill;And some unprofitable scorn resign,To praise the very thing that he deplores;So, friends (dear friends), remember, if you will,The shame I win for singing is all mine,The gold I miss for dreaming is all yours.
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