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Wittenberg

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We jumped the bed, and one night broke its frame,
and read our lessons, wept as Thisbe died.
When the gold ran out, you'd shout your name.
and, for the prince, they'd put the debt aside.
We never wasted words except to sing
or cry out loud the sweetest lines of Greek
or shout for more, for more of everything;
when hearts are one, what need have tongues to speak?
When at your father's death you had to leave
-- left a weeping wench, Aristophanes unread --
I tied the mourning band around your sleeve
and knelt to you and bent my common head.
"A prince you came," I said, "a king you go."
You shook your head, "Not so, Horatio."

 

 

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