51 But those to whom, as friends and brothers, My first few stanzas I once read— ‘Some are no more, and distant… others.’* As Sadi* long before us said. Without them my Onegin’s fashioned. And she from whom I drew, impassioned, My fair Tatyana’s noblest trait… Oh, much, too much you’ve stolen, Fate! But blest is he who rightly gauges The time to quit the feast and fly, Who never drained life’s chalice dry, Nor read its novel’s final pages; But all at once for good withdrew— As I from my Onegin do.
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