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Poem by Alfred Tennyson
We move, the wheel must always move, Nor always on the plain, And if we move to such a goal As wisdom hopes to gain, Then you that drive, and know your Craft. Will firmly hold the rein, Nor lend an ear to random cried, Or you may drive in vain, For some cry ‘Quick’ and some cry ‘Slow’ But, while the hills remain, Up hill ‘Too-slow’ will need the whip, Down hill ‘Too-quick’ the chain.
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