’Tis time for the sacrifice sacred to Faunus— He may get our lambkin, he may get our goat. O Sextius, ere death shall have wholly withdrawn us, Take this from Horatius, your favorite pote; Soon Pluto will cail you, at some unforeseen time, You'll go, be you journalist-jester or king, You can’t get away from it. But, in the meantime, ’Tis Spring!
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In Other Words