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— John Armstrong"Ye who amid this feverish world would wear A body free of pain, of cares a mind, Fly the rank city, shun its turbid air; Breathe not the chaos of eternal smoke And volatile corruption, from the dead, The dying, sickening, and the living world Exhal'd, to sully heaven's transparent dome With dim mortality."
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There comes in all our lives a time ... when the ears can listen to no music save what the moonlight breathes through the flute of silence.
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