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Whose numbers, stealing through thy
(1720 – 1769.]
Oft has it been my lot to mark
A proud, conceited, talking spark, And many a Nymph who wreathes her with eyes that hardly served at most brows with sedge,
To guard their master 'gainst a post; And sheds the freshening dew, and, love. Yet round the world the blade has beeu, lier still,
To see whatever could be seen.
Grown ten times perter than before ;
Whatever word you chance to drop, Then let me rove some wild and heathy The travelled fool your month will stop:
“Sir, if my judgment you 'll allow – Or find some ruin midst its creary dells, I've seen – and sure I ought to know."
Whose walls more awful nod So hegs you 'd pay a due submission,
And acquiesce in his decision.