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A taste that will define an age
Where press glorify bloodís contrite
And frighten people of the night.
Mix one part virtue, two parts vice;
A dash of pretense cooled by ice.
And sip it slow because itís strong,
Tíwill dull your sense of right and wrong.
'Tis only served in frailtyís grace;
A harsh critique of humanís race.
But how to think when fell from throne,
By reaping which were foremost sewn?