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— Richard Heber"By cool Siloam's shady rill How sweet the lily grows! How sweet the breath beneath the hill Of Sharon's dewy rose!"
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Her lips are roses over-washed with dew, Or like the purple of Narcissus' flower; No frost their fair, no wind doth waste their power, But by her breath her beauties to renew.
— Robert Greene
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All the gold in the world cannot buy a dying man one more breath--so what does that make today worth?
— Og Mandino
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