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Sunday, January 01, 2006
…Then as ye sit about your embers, Call not to mind those fled Decembers; But think on these, that are t'appear, As daughters to the instant year; Sit crown'd with rose-buds, and carouse, Till LIBER PATER twirls the house About your ears, and lay upon The year, your cares, that's fled and gone: And let the russet swains the plough And harrow hang up resting now; And to the bag-pipe all address, Till sleep takes place of weariness… Robert Herrick |