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Poem by Abraham Cowley
The merry waves dance up and down, and play, Sport is granted to the sea; Birds are the choristers of the empty air, Sport is never wanting there. The ground doth smile at the spring's flowery birth, Sport is granted to the earth; The fire its cheering flame on high doth rear, Sport is never wanting there, If all the elements, the earth, the sea, Air, and fire, so merry be, Why is man's mirth so seldom and so small, Who is compounded of them all?
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