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Whither, city, are your profits and your gilded shrines, And your barbecues of great oxen, And the tall women walking your streets, in gilt clothes, With their perfumes in little alabaster boxes? Where is the work of your home-born sculptors

Time's tooth is into the lot, and war's and fate's too. Envy has taken your all, Save your douth and your story. Agathas Scholasticus.

Woman? Oh, woman is a consummate rage, but dead, or asleep, she pleases. Take her. She has two excellent seasons. Palladas.

Phidon neither purged me, nor touched me, But I remembered the name of his fever medicine and died.