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Alas, regardless of their doom,

The little victims play!
No sense have they of ills to come,

Nor care beyond to-day ;

Yet see how all around 'em wait

The Ministers of human fate,

And black Misfortune's baleful train !

Ah shew them where in ambush stand

To seize their prey the murth'rous band !

Ah, tell them, they are men !

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Or pining Love shall waste their youth,
Or Jealousy with rankling tooth,


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That inly gnaws the secret heart, And Envy wan, and faded Care, Grim-visag'd comfortless Despair,

And Sorrow's piercing dart.

Ambition this shall tempt to rile,

Then whirl the wretch from high,
To bitter Scorn a Sacrifice,

And grinding Infamy.
The stings of Fallhood those shall try,
And hard Unkindness' alter'd eye,

That mocks the tear it forc'd to flow ;

And keen Remorse with blood defild,
And moody Madness * laughing wild

Amid fevereft woe.


Madness laughing in his ireful mood.,

Dryden's Fable of Palamon and Arcite.

Lo, in the vale of years beneath

A grilly troop are seen,
The painful family of Death,

More hideous than their Queen:
This racks the joints, this fires the veins,
That every labouring finew strains,

Those in the deeper vitals rage :
Lo, Poverty, to fill the band,
That numbs the foul with icy hand,

And flow-consuming Age.

To each his suffrings: all are men,

Condemn'd alike to groan, The tender for another's pain :

Th' unfeeling for his own,


Yet, ah! why should they know their fate?

Since sorrow never comes too late,

And happiness too swiftly flies.

Thought would destroy their paradise, No more ; where ignorance is bliss,

'Tis folly to be wise.




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