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“We are the fools of time and terror: Days

Steal on us, and steal from us, yet we live

Loathing our life, and dreading still to die

In all the days of this detested yoke─

This vital weight upon the struggling heart,

Which sinks with sorrow, or beats quick with pain,

Or joy that ends in agony, or faintness─

In all the days of past and future, for

In life there is no present, we can number