For ten years I never left my books.
I went up ... and won unmerited praise.
My high place I do not much prize.
The joy of my parents will first make me proud.
Fellow students, six or seven men,
See me off as I leave the City gate.
My covered couch is ready to drive away.
Flutes and strings blend their parting tune.
Hopes achieved dull the pains of parting.
Fumes of wine shorten the long road...
Shod with wings is the horse of him who rides.
On a Spring day the road that leads to home.
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