Lost on a fogbound spit of sand In shoes that pinched me, close at hand I heard the plash of Charon’s oar, Who ferries no one to a happy shore.
“No private grudge they need, no personal spite, The viva sectio is its own delight! All enmity, all envy, they disclaim, Disinterested thieves of our good name: Cool, sober murderers of their neighbours’ fame.”
Samuel Taylor Coleridge | “Modern Critics”
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