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Normale Version: Dear Friends
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Dear Friends

Dear friends, reproach me not for what I do,
Nor consuel me, nor pity me; nor say
That I am wearing half my life away
For bubble-work that only fools pursue.

And if my bubbles be too small for you,
low bigger then your own: the games we play
To fill the frittered minutes of a day,
Good glasses are to read the spirit through.

And whoso reads may get him some shrewd skill;
And some improfitable scorn resign,
To praise the very thing that he deplores.

So, friends (dear Friends, remember, if you will,
The shame I win for singing is all mine,
The gold I miss for dreaming is all yours.