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And ye, that from the stately brow

Of WINDSOR's heights th' expanfe below

Of grove, of lawn, of mead furvey,

Whose turf, whofe fhade, whofe flowers among

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As waving fresh their gladfome wing,
My weary foul they seem to footh,

And, *redolent of joy and youth,

To breathe a second spring.

Say, Father THAMES, for thou hast seen

Full many a fprightly race

Difporting on thy margent green

The paths of pleasure trace,

Who foremost now delight to cleave
With pliant arm thy glaffy wave?

And bees their honey redolent of spring.

Dryden's Fable on the Pythag. Syftem.

C 2

The

The captive linnet which enthrall?

What idle progeny fucceed

To chase the rolling circle's speed,

Or urge the flying ball?

While fome on earnest business bent

Their murm'ring labours ply

'Gainft graver hours, that bring constraint

To sweeten liberty:

Some bold adventurers difdain

The limits of their little reign,

And unknown regions dare defcry:

Still as they run they look behind,

They hear a voice in every wind,

And fnatch a fearful joy.

Gay hope is theirs by fancy fed, Less pleasing when possest;

The tear forgot as foon as fhed,

The funfhine of the breast :

Theirs buxom health of rofy hue,

Wild wit, invention ever-new,

And lively chear of vigour born;
The thoughtless day, the eafy night,
The spirits pure, the flumbers light,

That fly th' approach of morn.

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Yet fee how all around 'em wait

The Ministers of human fate,

And black Misfortune's baleful train!

Ah, fhew them where in ambush stand

To feize their prey the murth'rous band!
Ah, tell them, they are men!

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