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In myriad manners are thy praises told:
The suns the circles of their course complete,
And ever hear some tongue thy name repeat;
The stars, that follow where those orbs have rolled,
Know all the lands and climes thy clients hold;
The spring's first daisies blossom at thy feet;
For thee the summer winds are bland and sweet,
And thine its beauty as the year grows old:

And yet perchance, of all the forms and ways
Wherein thy childre......

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