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John Donne

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The world's whole sap is sunk:
The general balm th' hydroptic earth hath drunk,
Whither, as to the bed's-feet, life is shrunk,
Dead and interred; yet all these seem to laugh,
Compared with me, who am their epitaph.
--
A Nocturnal upon St. Lucy's Day, stanza 1.

 
John Donne

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