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touch me for coining who was
that man why Sir the shill
hath gifts he mars me no shibboleths I’ll keep him Sir
belike the oft frost mars the frequent goose yes I’ll bite
purpling peach and tanager where’s the primping room
oh no but here’s my hand
on it Madam yet she flieth
eke it is trumps below for where Medusa sits in tiring-room
beside the heavy gates of Dis the one come far
opes them with a touch from the heavenly wand
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