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P 409

Wit fails with age; awry with him that 's old it tendeth;
My cheek's pomegranate-flower mere paint to hold it tendeth:
What wonder if Life's house totter, since, all in ruin,
Roof, door and cornerstones, to wrack and mould it tendeth?

Th 865

Old age bent over totters to its end,
My cheek's pomegranate flowers some color lend;
The roof and doors and cornerstones and walls
Of Being’s house to desolation tend.

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