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XXXVI
For in the Market-place, one Dusk of Day,
I watch'd the Potter thumping his wet Clay :
And with its all obliterated Tongue
It murmur'd — "Gently, Brother, gently, pray !
XXXVII
Ah, fill the Cup :— what boots it to repeat
How Time is slipping underneath our Feet :
Unborn TO-MORROW and dead YESTERDAY,
Why fret about them if TO-DAY be sweet !
