We are little brethren twain,
Arbiters of loss and gain,
Many to our counters run,
Some are made, and some undone:
But men find it to their cost,
Few are made, but numbers lost.
Though we play them tricks for ever,
Yet they always hope our favour.
On A Pair Of Dice
Jonathan Swift
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Poem topics: hope, loss, lost, play, gain, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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