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True Praise

From the same.

When first my feeble verse essay’d

Of heavenly joys to sing,

Fancy was summon’d to my aid

Her choicest stores to bring.

With studied words each rising thought

I deck’d, with nicest art,

And shining metaphors I sought

To burnish every part.

Thousands of notions swift did run,

And fill’d my labouring head;

I blotted oft what I begun,—

This was too flat, that dead.

To clothe the sun, no dress too fine

I thought, no words too gay;

Much less the realms that glorious shine

In one eternal day.

Meanwhile I whispering heard a Friend.

“Why all this vain pretence?

Love has a sweetness ready penn’d;

Take that, and save expense.”


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