No man e'er own'd a bottle nor a bride,
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For if't were else he ne'er'd his heart's-blood spilt,
But sadd'ning fate did'st contradict his pride
And thrust a jilting dagger in to'ts hilt.
O, gory is the path of Loving man!
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A steep trail, slick'd in sanguine spoil—
Some red-stain'd foot-prints stray the strait main's span
Like slug-lines 'hind them tirèd by its toil.
Time's knock is brutal— steady, too: it sounds
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Each hour a bastard blast, shakes juice and bone,
And with its chimes man's fancy quick't confounds,
And claims o'er wives and wines it's lord alone.
Yet e'en sharp sorrow's not man's e'er to keep,
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And eyes rest now whose lips cried "e'er I'll weep!"