When April with his showers sweet...
...howls, "Shrew! Wine, shrew!" I shit peat...
...howls, "Shrew! Wine, shrew!" I shit peat...
(April is most particular about his tipple and I'm no help.)
Sing to me, O Muse, but not of Wand'ring Jews, nor Ulysses, late of Troy, nor Anchises, or his boy. Sing of one instead who never left...
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