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Poem by George Herbert
Alas, poor Death! Where is thy glory? Where is thy famous force, thy ancient sting? Alas, poor mortal, void of story! Go spell and read how I have killed thy King. Poor Death! And who was hurt thereby? Thy curse being laid on Him makes thee accurst. Let losers talk, yet thou shalt die; These arms shall crush thee. Spare not, do thy worst. I shall be one day better than before; Thou so much worse, that thou shalt be no more.
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