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Taedium Vitae To stab my youth with desperate knives, to wear This paltry1 age's gaudy2 livery, To let each base hand filch3 my treasury4, To mesh5 my soul within a woman's hair, And be mere6 Fortune's lackeyed groom7, - I swear I love it not! these things are less to me Than the thin foam8 that frets9 upon the sea, Less than the thistledown of summer air Which hath no seed: better to stand aloof10 Far from these slanderous11 fools who mock my life Knowing me not, better the lowliest roof Fit for the meanest hind12 to sojourn13 in, Than to go back to that hoarse14 cave of strife15 Where my white soul first kissed the mouth of sin.
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