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Fresh spring the herald of loves mighty king,
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In whose cote armour richly are displayed
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All sorts of flowers the which on earth do spring
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In goodly colours gloriously arrayed.
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Go to my love, Where she is carelesse laid,
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Yet in her winters bowre:
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Tell her the joyous time will not be staid
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Unlesse she do him by the forelock take,
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Bid her therefore her selfe soon ready make,
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To wait on love amongst his lovely crew.
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Where every one that misseth then her make,
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Shall be by him amercest with penance dew.
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Make hast therefore sweet love, whilest it is prime,
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For none can call againe the passed time.
éæ¥ä¸å»é¾åï¼åæ¯å¤§æµ·ä¸æµã By Rudyard kiplingif you can keep you head when all about youAre losing theirs and blaming it on you;If you can trust yourself when all man doubt you,But make allowance for their doubting too;If you can wait but not be tired by waiting,Or,being lied about,donât deal in lies,Or,being hated,donât give way to hating,And yet donât look too good, nor talk too wise; If you can dreamââand not make dreams your master;If you can think_and not make thoughts your aim;If you can meeting with triumph and disasterAnd treat those two impostors just the same;If you can bear to hear the truth youâve spokenTwisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,And stoop and buildâem up with worn-out tools; If you can make one heap of all your winningsAnd risk it on one turn of pich-and-toss,And lose,and start again at your beginningsAnd never breathe a word about your loss;If you can force your heart and nerve and sinewTo serve your turn long after they are gone,And so hold on when there is nothing in youExcept the will which says to them:âHold on!â; If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,Or walk with Kingsânor lose the common touch;If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;If all men count with you,but none too much;If you can fill the unforgiving minuteWith sixty secondsâ worth of disdance runâYours is the Earth and everything thatâs in it,Andâwhich is more- youâll be a Man my son! å¦æ æ迪äºå¾·Â·ååæ å¦æææ人é½ä¸§å¤±çæºå°åéªä½ ï¼ä½ ä»è½è®©èªå·±ä¿ææ¸
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