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You in your grotto-work inclos'd
Complain of being thus expos'd,
Yet nothing feel in that rough coat,
Save when the knife is at your throat,
Wherever driv'n by wind or tide,
Exempt from ev'ry ill befide.

And as for you, my Lady Squeamish,
Who reckon ev'ry touch a blemish,
If all the plants that can be found
Embellishing the scene around,
Shou'd droop and wither where they grow,
You would not feel at all, not you.
The noblest minds their virtue prove
By pity, fyinpathy, and love,
These, these are feelings truly fine,
And
prove

their owner half divine.
His censure reach'd them as he dealt it,
And each by shrinking shew'd he felt it.

T,

TO THE REV. WILLIAM CAW- .

THORNE UNWIN.

I.

UNWIN, I should but ill repay,

The kindness of a friend,
Whose worth deferves as warm a lay

As ever friendship penn'd,
Thy name omitted in a page,
That would reclaim a vicious age.

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II.

An union form’d, as mine with thee,

Nor rashly or in sport,
May be as fervent in degree,

And faithful in its sort,
And may as rich in comfort prove,
As that of true fraternal love.

III.

The bud inserted in the rind,

The bud of peach or rose,
Adorns, though diff'ring in its kind,

The stock whereon it grows,
With flow'r as sweet or fruit as fair,
As if produc'd by nature there.

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IV. Nor IV.

Nor rich, I render what I may,

I seize thy name in hafte, And place it in this first assay,

Left this should prove the lait. 'Tis where it should be, in a plan That holds in view the good of man.

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The poet's lyre, to fix his fame,

Should be the poet's heart,
Affe&tion lights a brighter flame

Then ever blaz’d by art.
No muses on these lines attend,
I fink the poet in the friend.

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