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146 Thus Spake Mercutio Be they belaureled as the king of cats, I’ll not recant. Euphues is no more poet than a pig, oinking his drivel at the moon. And singsong rhymers by the millions shrink to nil beside the singer of the “Song of Songs.” Nor does allegiance to a master-piper matter in the least. Name one of all the acolytes who formed the Tribe of Ben. Lovers of a sort may toast the aromatic meat of wenches, but their rhapsodies at midnight disappear by dawn. And those who pen for pelf and hawk their words as marketeers deserve the wages of disdain. The time of breath is much too brief for humbug. Let us have poetry that strikes us dumb or leaves us stabbed so deeply that the wound in perpetuity stays raw. Let us have that or nothing. ...

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