Epitaph on a Dormouse
IN paper case,
Hard by this place,
Dead a poor dormouse lies;
And soon or late,
Summoned by fate,
Each prince, each monarch dies.
Ye sons of verse,
While I rehearse,
Attend instructive rhyme;
No sins had Dor
To answer for,
Repent of yours in time.
Hard by this place,
Dead a poor dormouse lies;
And soon or late,
Summoned by fate,
Each prince, each monarch dies.
Ye sons of verse,
While I rehearse,
Attend instructive rhyme;
No sins had Dor
To answer for,
Repent of yours in time.
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