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Phoebus' self, too, needs must love thee;They their silver voices gave thee,Age can never steal upon thee.Wise and gentle friend of poets,Born a creature fleshless, bloodless,Though Earth's daughter, free from suff'ring,To the gods e'en almost equal.

Wrapp'd in a blissful repose, glad as Rinaldo of yore:Ah, I myself understand full well; 'tis my body that travels,

This be my pride,--this, life to me!