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    pretties are pretty

    Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by this sun of York; And all the clouds that lour'd upon our house In the deep bosom of the ocean buried. Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths; Our bruised arms hung up for monuments; Our stern alarums changed to merry meetings, Our dreadful marches to delightful measures

    13 january 2020 17:28 1628
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    nice poem bro!

    13 january 2020 19:42 1628
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    Love it, ^^

    13 january 2020 22:06 1628
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