Will people accept them? As a timorous wench from a centaur (or a centurion), Already they flee, howling in terror. Will they be touched with the verisimilitudes? Their virgin stupidity is untemptable. I beg you, my friendly critics, Do not set about to procure me an audience. I mate with my free kind upon the crags; the hidden recesses Have heard the echo of my heels, in the cool light, in the darkness.
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