The edge of war, like an ill-sheathèd knife, No more shall cut his master. Those opposèd eyes, Which, like the meteors of a troubled heaven, All of one nature, of one substance bred, Did lately meet in the intestine shock And furious close of civil butchery Shall now, in mutual well-beseeming ranks, March all one way and be no more opposed Against acquaintance, kindred, and allies. Nor more shall trenching war channel her fields, Nor bruise her flow’rets with the armed hoofs Of hostile paces. No more the thirsty entrance of this soil Shall daub her lips with her own children’s blood. So shaken as we are, so wan with care, Find we a time for frighted peace to pant And breathe short-winded accents of new broils To be commenced in strands afar remote.
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