Chapter LIV

Otho's head is a very dwarf; a rustic's
Shanks has Herius, only semi-cleanly;
Libo's airs to a fume of art refine them.
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_Yet thou flee'st not above my keen iambics_.
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[_So may destiny doom me quite to silence_]
As I care not if every line offend thee 10
And Sufficius, age in youth's revival.
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Thou shalt kindle at innocent iambics,
Mighty general, once again returning.