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Like wine that by a chemist's art Is through retorts refined, Their spirits to the deuce depart, The phlegma's left behind. From every woman's face they fly, Its very aspect dread, And if they dared and could not why, 'Twere better they were dead. They shun all worthies when they can, Grief at their joy they prove The man who cannot make a man, A man can never love!
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