Let but thy wicked men from out thee go,
And all the fools that crowd thee so,
Even thou, who dost thy millions boast,
A village less than Islington wilt grow,
A solitude almost.
-- Abraham Cowley (1618-1667)
-- Of Solitude, vii
And all the fools that crowd thee so,
Even thou, who dost thy millions boast,
A village less than Islington wilt grow,
A solitude almost.
-- Abraham Cowley (1618-1667)
-- Of Solitude, vii
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