Ere the prick of the spurFinds you lame or laggard,Do not demur!When Time advancesTerrible and lone,Recall there were dancesThough they be flown.When Death plys the riddleTo which all are mute,Remember the fiddle,The lyre and the flute."
To three who will heedHis song, nor brookThat a god should pleadIn vain, a book.
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