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Or if thou would't thy diffrent talents suit,
Set thy own Songs, and sing them to thy lute.
He said, but his last words were scarcely heard, 2
For Bruce and Longvil had a Trap prepar'd,
And down they sent the yet declaiming Bard.
Sinking he left his Drugget Robe behind,
Born upwards by a Subterranean wind.
The Mantle fell to the young Prophet's part,
With double portion of his Father's Art.

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