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O th'unsure hopes of men! The brittle state, The vain contentions that unluckily, Oft in midst of the race fall ruinate. And in their course long overwhelméd be, And swallow'd up ere they the port could see. O women's fruitless love! Unquiet state! Too dear affections, that despitefully, E'en in their height of bliss prove desolate! And often fall far from all hope of joy, Ere they have time to dream on their annoy. |