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How

long, great Poet! fhall thy facred lays

Provoke our wonder, and tranfcend our praise?

Can neither injuries of time, or age,

Damp thy poetic heat, and quench thy rage?

Not fo thy Ovid in his exile wrote,

Grief chill'd his breaft, and check'd his rifing thought;

Penfive and fad, his drooping mufe betrays

The Roman genius in its laft decays.

Prevailing warmth has ftill thy mind poffefs'd,
And fecond, youth is kindled in thy breaft;
Thou mak'it the beauties of the Romans known,
And England boasts of riches not her own;

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