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The beafts are charter'd-neither age nor force
Can quell the love of freedom in a horse :
He breaks the cord that held him at the rack,
And, confcious of an unencumber'd back,
Snuffs up the morning air, forgets the rein,
Loofe fly his forelock and his ample mane;
Refponfive to the diftant neigh he neighs,
Nor stops till, overleaping all delays,

He finds the pafture where his fellows graze.

§ 105. On Liberty, and in Praise of Mr. Howard. COWPER.

H could I worship aught beneath the skies,
That earth hath feen or fancy could devife,
Thine altar, facred Liberty, should stand,
Built by no mercenary vulgar hand,
With fragrant turf, and flow'rs as wild and fair
As ever drefs'd a bank, or scented fummer air.
Duly as ever on the mountain's height
The peep of morning fhed a dawning light;
Again, when evening in her fober veft
Drew the grey curtain of the fading Weft;
My foul fhould yield thee willing thanks and

For the chief bleffings of my faireft days:
But that were facrilege-praife is not thine,
But his who gave thee, and preferves thee mine:
Elfe I would fay, and as I fpake bid fly
A captive bird into the boundless sky,
This triple realm adores thee-thou art come
From Sparta hither, and art here at home;
We feel thy force ftill active, at this hour
Enjoy immunity from pricftly pow'r ;
While confcience, happier than in ancient years,
Owns no fuperior but the God fhe fears.
Propitious Spirit! yet expunge a wrong
Thy rites have fuffer'd, and our land, too long;
Teach mercy to ten thoufand hearts that fhare
The fears and hopes of a commercial care:
Prifons expect the wicked, and were built
To bind the lawless, and to punish guilt;
But fhipwreck, earthquake, battle, fire, and flood,
Are mighty mifchiefs not to be withstood;
And honeft merit ftands on flipp'ry ground,
Where covert guile and artifice abound:
Let juft reftraint, for public peace defign'd,
the wolves and tigers of mankind;
The foe of virtue has no claim to thee,
But let infolvent innocence
go free.


Patron of elfe the most defpis'd of men,. Accept the tribute of a ftranger's pen; Verfe, like the laurel its immortal meed, Should be the guerdon of a noble deed: I may alarm thee, but I fear the shame (Charity chofen as my theme and aim) I muft incur, forgetting Howard's name. Bleft with all wealth can give thec-to refign Joys doubly fweet to feelings quick as thine; To quit the blifs thy rural scenes bestow, To feek a nobler amidst fcenes of woe; To traverfe feas, range kingdoms, and bring home, Not the proud monuments of Greece or Rome, But knowledge fuch as only dungeons teach, And only fympathy like thine could reach;

That grief, fequefter'd from the public stage,
Might smooth her feathers, and enjoy her cage-
Speaks a divine ambition, and a zeal
The boldeft patriot might be proud to feel.
Oh that the voice of clamour and debate,
That pleads for peace till it difturbs the state,
Were hufh'd in favour of thy gen'rous plea,
The poor thy clients, and Heaven's fmile thy fee!

$106. On Domeflic Happiness, as the Friend of
Virtue, and of the falfe Good-nature of the
DOMESTIC happiness, thou only blifs

Of Paradife that has furviv'd the fall!
Tho' few now tafte thee unimpair'd and pure,
Or tafting, long enjoy thee; too infirm
Or too incautious to preferve thy fweets
Unmixt with drops of bitter, which neglect
Or temper fheds into thy cryftal cup.
Thou art the nurfe of virtue. In thine arms
She smiles, appearing, as in truth she is,
Heaven-born, and deftin'd to the fkics again.
Thou art not known where pleasure is ador'd,
That reeling goddess with the zoneless waist
And wand'ring eyes, ftill leaning on the arm
Of novelty, her fickle frail fupport;
For thou art meck and conftant, hating change,
And finding in the calm of truth-tied love
Joys that her ftormy raptures never yield.
Forfaking thee, what shipwreck have we made
Of honour, dignity, and fair renown,
Till proftitution elbows us afide

In all our crowded streets, and fenates feem
Conven'd for purposes of empire lefs
Than to release th' adultrefs from her bond!
Th' adultrefs! what a theme for angry verse,
What provocation to th' indignant heart
That feels for injur'd love! But I difdain
The naufeous talk to paint her as the is,
Cruel, abandon'd, glorying in her shame.
No. Let her pafs; and, charioted along,
In guilty fplendour fhake the public ways;
The frequency of crimes has wash'd them white.
And verfe of inine fhall never brand the wretch
Whom matrons now of character unfmirch'd,
And chafte themselves, are not afham'd to own.
Virtue and vice had bound'ries in old time
Not to be pass'd: and she that had renounc'd
Her fex's honour, was renounc'd herself
By all that priz'd it; not for Prudery's fake,
But Dignity's, refentful of the wrong.
'Twas hard perhaps on here and there a waif
Defirous to return, and not receiv'd;
But was an wholefome rigour in the main,
And taught th' unblemish'd to preferve with care,
That purity, whofe lofs was lofs of all.
Men too were nice in honour in those days,
And judg'd offenders well: and he that sharp'd,
And pocketed a prize by fraud obtain'd,
Was mark'd and fhunn'd as odious. He that fold
His country, or was flack when the requir'd
His ev'ry nerve in action and at stretch,
Paid with the blood that he had bafely spar'd
The price of his default. But now-yes, now,


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Well equipag'd, is ticket good enough
To país us readily through ev'ry door.
Hypocrify, deteft her as we may,

(And no man's hatred ever wrong'd her yet)
May claim this merit ftill, that the admits
The worth of what the mimics with fuch care,
And thus gives virtue indirect applause.
But he has burnt her masks, not needed here,
Where vice has fuch allowance, that her fhifts
And fpecious femblances have loft their use.

§ 107.
On the Employments of what is called
an Idle Life.
HOW various his employments whom the world
Calls idle, and who juftly in return
Efteems that bufy world an idler too!
Friends, books, a garden, and perhaps his pen,
Delightful induftry enjoy'd at home,
And nature in her cultivated trim
Drefs'd to his tafte, inviting him abroad-
Can he want occupation who has thefe ?
Will he be idle who has much t' enjoy?
Me therefore, ftudious of laborious cafe,
Not flothful; happy to deceive the time,
Not wafte it; and aware that human life
Is but a loan to be repaid with use,
When He shall call his debtors to account
From whom are all our bleflings-bufinefs finds
Ev'n here. While fedulous I feek t' improve,
At least neglect not, or leave unemploy'd,
The mind he gave me; driving it, though flack
Too oft, and much impeded in its work
By caufes not to be divulg'd in vain,
To its juft point-the fervice of mankind.
He that attends to his interior felf,
That has a heart, and keeps it; has a mind
That hungers, and fupplics it; and who fecks
A focial, not a diffipated life-

Has bufinefs; feels himself engag'd t' achieve
No unimportant, though a filent task.
A life all turbulence and noife may feem
To him that leads it wife, and to be prais'd;
But wifdom is a pearl with moft fuccefs
Sought in ftill water, and beneath clear skies.
He that is ever occupied in storms
Or dives not for it; or brings up instead,
Vainly induftrious, a difgraceful prize.
The Poft comes in-the News-paper is
read-The World contemplated at a dijiance.
Cow PER.
HARK! 'tis the twanging horn! o'er yonder


That with its wearifome but needful length
Beftrides the wint'ry flood, in which the moon
Sees her unwrinkled face reflected bright,
He comes, the herald of a noify world, [locks,
With foatter'd boots, ftrapp'd waift, and frozen
News from all nations lumb'ring at his back.

True to his charge, the close-pack'd load behind,
Yet careless what he brings, his one concern
Is to conduct it to the deftin'd inn;

And, having dropt th' expected bag, pafs on.
He whistles as he goes, light-hearted wretch,
Cold and yet cheerful: meffenger of grief
Perhaps to thousands, and of joy to fome;
To him indiffrent whether grief or joy.
Houses in afhes, and the fall of stocks,
Births, deaths, and marriages, epiftles wet
With tears that trickled down the writer's cheeks
Faft as the periods from his fluent quill,
Or charg'd with am'rous fighs of abfent fwains,
Or nymphs refponfive, equally affect
His horfe and him, unconfcious of them all.
But oh th' important budget! ufher'd in
With fuch heart-fhaking mufic, who can fay
What are its tidings have our troops awak'd?
Or do they ftill, as if with opium drugg'd,
Snore to the murmurs of th' Atlantic wave?
Is India free and does the wear her plum'd
And jewell'd turban with a fmile of peace,
Or do we grind her still? The grand debate,
The popular harangue, the tart reply,
The logic, and the wifdom, and the wit,
And the loud laugh-I long to know them all;
I burn to set th' imprifon'd wranglers free,
And give them voice and utt'rance once again.

Now ftir the fire and close the fhutters faft,
Let fall the curtains, wheel the fofa round,
And while the bubbling and loud hiffing urn
Throws up a steamy column, and the cups
That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each,
So let us welcome peaceful ev'ning in.
Not fuch his ev'ning who with fhining face
Sweats in the crowded theatre, and squeez'd,
And bor'd with elbow-points thro' both his fides,
Outfcolds the ranting actor on the stage.
Nor his, who patient ftands till his fect throb,
And his head thumps, to feed upon the breath
Of patriots bursting with heroic rage,
Or placemen all tranquillity and fmiles.
This folio of four pages, happy work!
Which not ev'n critics criticife, that holds
Inquifitive attention while I read

Faft bound in chains of filence, which the fair, Though eloquent themfelves, yet fear to breakWhat is it but a map of bufy life,


Its fluctuations, and its vaft concerns?
Here runs the mountainous and craggy ridge
That tempts ambition. On the fummit, fee,
The feals of office glitter in his eyes;
He climbs, he pants, he grafps them. At his
Clofe at his heels, a demagogue afcends,
And with a dext'rous jerk foon twifts him down,
And wins them, but to lofe them in his turn.
Here rills of oily cloquence in foft
Meanders lubricate the course they take:
The modeft fpeaker is afham'd and griev'd
T'engrofs a moment's notice; and yet begs,
Begs a propitious ear for his poor thoughts,
However trivial all that he conceives.
Sweet bafhfulnefs! it claims at least this praise,
The dearth of information and good fenfe
That it foretels us, always comes to pass.


Cataracts of declamation thunder here,
There forefts of no meaning spread the page
In which all comprehenfion wanders loft;
While fields of pleafantry amufe us there,
With merry defcants on a nation's woes.
The rest appears a wilderness of strange
But gay confufion-rofes for the checks
And lilies for the brows of faded age,
Teeth for the toothless, ringlets for the bald,
Heaven, earth, and ocean plunder'd of their fweets,
Nectareous effences, Olympian dews,
Sermons and city feasts, and fav'rite airs,
Ethereal journeys, fubmarine exploits,
And Katterfelto with his hair on end
At his own wonders, wond'ring for his bread.
'Tis pleasant through the loop-holes of retreat
To peep at fuch a world. To fee the ftir
Of the great Babel, and not feel the crowd.
To hear the roar fhe fends through all her gates
At a fafe distance, where the dying found
Falls a foft murmur on th' uninjur'd ear.
Thus fitting, and furveying thus at ease
The globe and its concerns, I feem advanc'd
To fome fecure and more than mortal height,
That lib'rates and exempts me from them all.
It turns fubmitted to my view, turns round
With all its generations; I behold

The tumult, and am ftill. The found of war
Has loft its terrors ere it reaches me;
Grieves but alarms me not. I mourn the pride
And av'rice that makes man a wolf to man,
Hear the faint echo of those brazen throats
By which he fpeaks the language of his heart,
And figh, but never tremble at the found.
He travels and expatiates, as the bee
From flow'r to flow'r, fo he from land to land;
The manners, customs, policy of all
Pay contribution to the ftore he gleans;
He fucks intelligence in ev'ry clime,
And spreads the honey of his deep research
At his return, a rich repaft for me!
He travels, and I too. I tread his deck,
Afcend his topmaft, through his peering eyes
Difcover countries, with a kindred heart
Suffer his woes, and fhare in his efcapes;
While fancy, like the finger of a clock,
Runs the great circuit, and is ftill at home.

$109. A Fragment. MALLET. FAIR morn afcends: fresh zephyrs breath Blows lib'ral o'er yon bloomy heath: Where, fown profufely, herb and flow'r Of balmy fmell, of healing pow'r, Their fouls in fragrant dews exhale, And breathe freth life in ev'ry gale. Here fpreads a green expanfe of plains, Where, fweetly-penfive, Silence reigns; And there, at utmost stretch of A mountain fades into the fky; While, winding round, diffus'd and deep, A river rolls with founding fweep. Of human art no traces near, I feem alone with nature here!


Here are thy walks, O facred Health !
The Monarch's blifs, the Beggar's wealth;
The feas'ning of all good below,
The fov'reign friend in joy or woe.
O Thot, moft courted, moft defpis'd,
And but in abfence duly priz'd!
Pow'r of the foft and rofy face!
The vivid pulfe, the vermil grace,
The fpirits, when they gayett fhine,
Youth, beauty, pleasure, all are thine !
O fun of life, whofe heavenly ray
Lights up and cheers our various day,
The turbulence of hopes and fears,
The ftorm of fate, the cloud of years,
Till nature, with thy parting light,
| Reposes late in Death's calm night:
Fled from the trophied roofs of state,
Abodes of fplendid pain and hate;
Fled from the couch, where, in fweet fleep,
Hot Riot would his anguish steep,
But toffes through the midnight fhade,
Of death, of life, alike afraid;
For ever fled to fhady cell,

Where temp'rance, where the Mufes dwell,
Thou oft art feen, at early dawn,
Slow-pacing o'er the breezy lawn:
Or, on the brow of mountain high,
In filence feafting ear and eye,
With fong and prospect which abound
From birds, and woods, and waters round.

But when the fun, with noon-tide ray,
Flames forth intolerable day;
While Heat fits fervent on the plain,
With Thirft and Languor in his train
(All nature fick'ning in the blaze),
Thou in the wild and woody maze
That clouds the vale with umbrage deep,
Impendent from the neighb'ring steep,
Wilt find betimes a calm retreat,
Where breathing Coolnefs has her feat.
There plung'd amid the fhadows brown,
Imagination lays him down;
Attentive, in his airy mood,
To ev'ry murmur of the wood:
The bee in yonder flow'ry nook;
The chidings of the headlong brook;
The green leaf quiv'ring in the gale;
The warbling hill, the lowing vale;
The diftant woodman's echoing stroke;
The thunder of the falling oak.
From thought to thought in vifion led,
He holds high converfe with the Dead
Sages or Poets. See, they rife!
And fhadowy fkim before his eyes.
Hark! Orpheus ftrikes the lyre again,
That foften'd favages to men:
Lo! Socrates, the Sent of Heaven,
To whom its moral will was given.
Fathers and Friends of human kind!
They form'd the nations, or refin'd,
With all that mends the head and heart,
Enlight'ning truth, adorning art.
Thus mufing in the folemn fhade,
At once the founding breeze was laid:


And nature, by the unknown law,
Shook deep with reverential awe;
Dumb filence grew upon the hour;
A browner night involv'd the bow'r:
When iffuing from the inmoft wood,
Appear'd fair Freedom's Genius good.
O Freedom! fov'reign boon of Heaven,
Great Charter with our being giv'n;
For which the patriot and the fage
Have plann'd, have bled, thro' ev'ry age!
High privilege of human race,
Beyond a mortal monarch's grace:
Who could not give, who cannot claim,
What but from God immediate came!


$110. Ode to Evening. Dr. Jos. WARTON. HAIL, meek-eyed Maiden, clad in fober grey, Whofe foft approach the weary woodian loves;

As homeward bent to kifs his prattling babes Jocund he whifties through the twilight groves. When Phoebus finks behind the gilded hills, You fightly o'er the mifty meadows walk; The drooping daifies bathe in dulcet dews, And nurfe the nodding violet's tender stalk. The panting Dryads, that in day's fierce heat To inmoft bow'rs and cooling caverns ran, Return to trip in wanton ev'ning dance; Old Sylvan too returns, and laughing Pan. To the deep wood the clamorous rooks repair, Light fkims the fwallow o'er the wat'ry fcene; And from the fheep-cote, and fresh-furrow'd field, Stout ploughmen meet to wrestle on the green. The fwain, that artlefs fings on yonder rock, His fupping fheep and length'ning fhadow fpies, Pleas'd with the cool, the calm refrething hour, And with hoarfe humming of unnumber'd flies. Now ev'ry Paffion fleeps: defponding Love, And pining Envy, ever-reftlefs Pride; And holy Calm creeps o'er my peaceful foul, Anger and mad Ambition's ftorms fubfide. O modeft Evening! oft let me appear A wandering votary in thy penfive train; Lift'ning to every wildly-warbling note That fills with farewel fweet thy darkening plain.

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While down her neck her vagrant treffes flow, In all the awful negligence of woe;

Her urn fuftain'd her arm, that fculptur'd vase Where Vulcan's art had lavith'd all his grace. Here, full with life, was heaven-taught Science feen,

Known by the laurel wreath and mufing mien; There cloud-crown'd Fame, here Peace fedate and bland,

Swell'd the loud trump, and wav'd the olive wand; While folemn domes, arch'd fhades, and viftas


At well-mark'd diftance close the facred scene.
On this the goddefs caft an anxious look,
Then dropt a tender tear, and thus the fpoke:
Yes, I could once with pleas'd attention trace
The mimic charms of this prophetic vase;
Then lift my head, and with enraptur'd eyes
View on yon plain the real glories rife.
Yes, Ins! cft haft thou rejoic'd to lead
Thy liquid treatures o'er yon fav'rite mead;
Oft haft thou ftopt thy pearly car to gaze,
While ev'ry Science nurs'd its growing bays;
While ev'ry Youth, with fame's ftrong impulfe
Prefs'd to the goal, and at the goal untir'd [fir'd,
Snatch'd each celeftial wreath, to bind his brow,
The Mufes, Graces, Virtues could bestow.

E'en now fond Fancy leads th' ideal train,
And ranks her troops on Memory's ample plain;
See! the firm leaders of my patriot line,
See! Sidney, Raleigh, Hampden, Somers fhine.
See Hough, fuperior to a tyrant's doom,
Smile at the menace of the flave of Rome:
Each foul whom truth,could fire, or virtue move,
Each breaft ftrong panting with its country's love,
All that to Albion gave their heart or head,
That wifely counfell'd, or that bravely bled,
The well-carn'd prize of every virtuous toil
All, all appear; on me they grateful fmile,
To me with filial reverence they bring,
And hang fresh trophies o'er my honour'd fpring.
Ah! I remember well yon becchen fpray,
There Addifon firft tun'd his polifh'd lay;
'Twas there great Cato's form first met his eye,
In all the pomp of free-born majefty; [awe,


My fon," he cried, "obferve this mien with "In folemn lines the ftrong refemblance draw; "The piercing notes fhall ftrike each British car "Each British eye fhall drop the patriot tear! "And, rous'd to glory by the nervous strain, "Each Youth fhall spurn at flavery's abject reign; "Shall guard with Cato's zeal Britannia's laws, "And fpeak, and act, and bleed, in freedom's caufe."

The Hero spoke; the bard assenting bow'd;
The lay to Liberty and Cato flow'd;
While Echo, as the rov'd the vale along,
Join'd the ftrong cadence of his Roman fong.

But, ah! how Stillnefs flept upon the ground, How mute attention check'd each rifing found, Scarce ftole a breeze to wave the leafy spray, Scarce trill'd fweet Philomel her fofteft lay, When Locke walk'd musing forth! e'en now I Majestic Wisdom thron'd upon his brow; [view

View Candour fmile upon his modeft check,
And from his eye all Judgment's radiance break.
'Twas here the fage his manly zeal exprefs'd,
Here ftript vain Falfchood of her gaudy veft;
Here Truth's collected beams firft fill'd his mind,
Ere long to burst in bleffings on mankind;
Ere long to fhew to reafon's purged eye,
ThatNature's firft beft gift was Liberty."
Proud of this wondrous fon, fublime I ftood
(While louder furges fwell'd my rapid flood);
Then, vain as Niobe, exulting cried,
Iliffus! roll thy fam'd Athenian tide;
Tho'Plato's fteps oft mark'd thy neighb'ring glade,
Tho' fair Lyceum lent its awful shade,
Tho' ev'ry Academic green imprefs'd
Its image full on thy reflecting breast,
Yet my pure ftream fhall boaft as proud a name,

And Britain's Ifis flow with Attic fame.
Alas! how chang'd! where now that Attic


See! Gothic Licence rage o'er all my coaft;
See! Hydra Faction fpread its impious reign,
Poifon each breaft, and madden ev'ry brain:
Hence frontlefs crowds that, not content to fright
The bluihing Cynthia from her throne of night,
Blaft the fair face of day; and, madly bold,
To Freedom's foes infernal orgies hold;
To Freedom's foes, ah! fee the goblet crown'd,
Hear plaufive fhouts to Freedom's foes refound;
The horrid notes my refluent waters daunt,
The Echoes groan, the Dryads quit their haunt;
Learning, that once to all diffus'd her beam,
Now fheds, by ftealth, a partial private gleam
In fome lone cloifter's melancholy fhade,
Where a firm few fupport her fickly head,
Defpis'd, infulted by the barb'rous train,
Who fcour like Thracia's moon-ftruck rout the

Sworn foes like them to all the Mufe approves,
All Phoebus favours, or Minerva loves.

Are thefe the fons my foft'ring breaft must rear,
Grac'd with my name, and nurtur'd by my care?
Muft these go forth from my maternal hand
To deal their infults thro' a peaceful land;
And boast, while Freedom bleeds, and Virtue

That Ifis taught Rebellion to her Sons?"
Forbid it, Heaven! and let my rifing waves
Indignant fwell, and whelm the recreant flaves!
In England's caufe their patriot floods employ,
As Xanthus delug'd in the caufe of Troy.
Is this denied; then point fome fecret way
Where far, far hence thefe guiltlefs ftreams may

Some unknown channel lend, where Nature fpreads
Inglorious vales, and unfrequented meads:
There, where a hind scarce tunes his ruftic strain,
Where fcarce a pilgrim treads the pathlefs plain,
Content I'll flow; forget that e'er my tide
Saw yon majestic ftructures crown its fide;
Forget that c'er my rapt attention hung
Or on the Sage's or the Poet's tongue;
Calm and refign'd my humbler lot embrace,
And, pleas'd, prefer oblivion to disgrace.

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$112. Epiftolary Verfes to George Colman, Efq.
written in the Year 1756. By Mr. ROBERT

YOU know, dear George, I'm none of those
That condefcend to write in profe:
Infpir'd with pathos and fublime,
I always foar-in doggrel rhyme;
And fearce can ask you how you do,
Without a jingling line or two.
Befides, I always took delight in
What bears the name of cafy writing;
Perhaps the reafon makes it please
Is, that I find 'tis writ with cafe.

I vent a notion here in private,
Which public taste can ne'er connive at,
Which thinks no wit or judgment greater
Than Additon and his Spectator;
Who fays (it is no matter where,
But that he fays it I can fwear)
With eafy verfe most bards are fmitten,
Because they think it's cafy written;
Whereas, the easier it appears,
The greater marks of care it wears;
Of which to give an explanation,
Take this by way of illuftration:
The fam'd Mat. Prior, it is faid,
Oft bit his nails, and feratch'd his head,
And chang'd a thought a hundred times,
Becaufe he did not like the rhymes:
To make my meaning clear, and pleafe ye,
In fhort, he labour'd to write eafy.
And yet no Critic e'er defines
His poems into labour'd lines.
I have a fimile will hit him;

His verfe, like clothes, was made to fit him;
Which (as no taylor c'er denied)
The better fit the more they're tried.

Though I have mention'd Prior's name,
Think not I aim at Prior's fame.
'Tis the refult of admiration
To spend itself in imitation;
If imitation may be said,
Which is in me by nature bred,
And you have better proofs than these,
That I'm idolater of Eafe.

Who but a madman would engage
A Poet in the prefent age?
Write what we will, our works befpeak us
Imitatores, fervum Pecus.
Tale, Elegy, or lofty Ode,

We travel in the beaten road.
The proverb ftill ticks clofely by us,
Nil dictum, quod non dictum prius.
The only comfort that I know
Is, that 'twas faid an age ago,
Ere Milton foar'd in thought fublime,
Ere Pope refin'd the chink of rhyme,
Ere Colman wrote in ftyle fo pure,
Or the great Two the Connoiffeur;
Ere I burlefqu'd the rural cit,
Proud to hedge in my fcraps of wit;
And, happy in the clofe connection,
T'acquire fome name from their reflection;
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