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... my numbers soft. I have no mistris, nor no favorit, Being fittest matter for a wanton wit, Thus I complaind, but Love unlockt his quiver, Tooke out the shaft, ordaind my hart to shiver: And bent his sinewy bow upon his knee, Saying, Poet heers a worke beseeming thee. Oh woe is me, he never shootes but hits, I burne, love in my idle bosome sits. - Ovid, Amores meek + pluvium
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ovid

http://community.livejournal.com/papermix/1229.html
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Published: 2 months ago (Thu, 22 Oct 2009 15:55:15 PDT); 1248 bytes
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