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Assailed by life, my sword has grown too sharp,
This cunning armour fits the frame too well;
Mailed gauntlets pluck poor music on a harp —
Yet what hope for the snail without its shell?
Assailed by life, my sword has grown too sharp,
This cunning armour fits the frame too well;
Mailed gauntlets pluck poor music on a harp —
Yet what hope for the snail without its shell?