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 Even sad eyes must sparkle in the sun,

But when the miracle of day is done,

Down in a bankrupt darkness deep I lie,

Haunted by all I lost—and might have won!

Yet was there aught to win that is not mine?

I ask not money—only to buy wine;

Women forsake me not for all my sins—

What better winnings, pious friend, are thine?

I am not fit for hell—I am too small;

For heaven I am too heretical;

I love both places, yet not one enough—

'Twixt the two stools I fall, and fall, and fall.