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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 rise,

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

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

That mocks the tear it forc'd to flow;

And keen Remor fe with blood defil'd,

And moody Madness * laughing wild

Amid feverest woe.


Madness laughing in his ireful mood.

Dryden's Fable of Palamon and Arcite,

Lo, in the vale of years beneath

A grisly 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 suff'rings: 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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