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But here the tangle grew too great To hope for its untying: I woke and found both him and me Upon the sofa lying.
(That "lying" comment doth invite, And 'tis indeed suggestive, But I'm not fibbing—honour bright! Nor had I been too festive.)
'Tis usual when a fable's told With a moral to equip it; So I my moral will unfold For you to read—or skip it.
Most men, departing from the rôles Nature for them intended, Have wandered widely from their goals, And to worse things descended.
So, in a sense, they lose themselves (They may or may not know it) And go about—poor witless elves— Like your bewildered poet.
Few are the lucky folk whose lines Are cast in places pleasant On whom benignant fortune shines With lustre ever crescent.
Alas! of these I am not one, But spend my life in groping After a path and finding none, Yet always vainly hoping.

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