The Fault of the Age
“H IS faults were but his age's faults,” you say.
Who makes an age, I ask, its gold or clay?
If one you find who walks in morning's light,
Dare you excuse the rest for deeds of night?
Who makes an age, I ask, its gold or clay?
If one you find who walks in morning's light,
Dare you excuse the rest for deeds of night?
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