Chapter_367

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When conflict’s bitter strain to its decision

At last attaineth, then the best physician

Is mirth, to close the overtasking day.

And song, the Muses’ child inspired, can lay

On the heart’s wounds her magic hands of healing.

Not steaming baths so softly charm away

The ache of toil, as words of praise outpealing

In unison with the lyre. Man’s speech shall long

Outlast his deeds, what words soe’er the tongue

Hath drawn up, by the Graces’ kind control,

From wells of inspiration in the soul.