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If there be nothing new, but that which is Hath been before, how are our brains beguiled, Which, labouring for invention, bear amiss The second burden of a former child? O that record could with a backward look Even of five hundred courses of the sun Show me your image in some antique book, Since mind at first in character was done, That I might see what the old world could say To this composed wonder of your frame; Whether we are mended, or whe'er better they, Or whether revolution be the same. O sure I am, the wits of former days To subjects worse have given admiring praise.
->perhaps there is nothing in this universe but I self<-