LVI

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LVI

At this great Caesar started on his feet,

Lifted his wings, and stood attentivewise.

“Those wings to Canterbury you must beat,

If you hold Bertha as a worthy prize,

Look in the Almanac⁠—Moore never lies⁠—

April the twenty-fourth⁠—this coming day,

Now breathing its new bloom upon the skies,

Will end in St. Mark’s Eve;⁠—you must away,

For on that eve alone can you the maid convey.”