The little that we do Is but half-nobly true; With our laborious hiving What men call treasure, and the gods call dross, Life seems a jest of Fate's contriving, Only secure in every one's conniving, A long account of nothings paid with loss.
little, we, true, our, laborious, hiving, What, men, call
Fate's such a shrewish thing.
For we by conquest, of our soveraine might,And by eternall doome of Fate's decree,Have wonne the Empire of the Heavens bright.
we, conquest, our, mightAnd, eternall, Empire, Heavens, bright
Sometimes an hour of Fate's serenest weather Strikes through our changeful sky its coming beams; Somewhere above us, in elusive ether, Waits the fulfilment of our dearest dreams.
Sometimes, hour, serenest, weather, Strikes, our, changeful, sky, coming
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