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 This is she for whose glory their years were counted as foam; Whose face was a light upon Greece, was a fire upon Rome.

Is it now not surely a vain thing, a foolish and vain, To sit down by her, mourn to her, serve her, partake in the pain? She is grey with the dust of time on his manifold ways, Where her faint feet stumble and falter through year-long days. Shall she help us at all, O fools, give fruit or give fame, Who herself is a name despised, a rejected name?

We have not served her for guerdon. If any do so, That his mouth may be sweet with such honey, we care not to know. We have drunk from a wine-unsweetened, a perilous cup, A draught very bitter. The kings of the earth stood up, And the rulers took counsel together, to smite her and slay; And the blood of her wounds is given us to drink today.

Can these bones live? or the leaves that are dead leaves bud? Or the dead blood drawn from her veins be in your veins blood?