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Be Violets in their secret mewsThe flowers the wanton Zephyrs chuse;Proud be the Rose, with rains and dewsHer head impearling;Thou liv'st with less ambitious aim,Yet hast not gone without thy fame;Thou art indeed by many a claimThe Poet's darling.
If to a rock from rains he fly,Or, some bright day of April sky,Imprison'd by hot sunshine lieNear the green holly,And wearily at length should fare;He need but look about, and thereThou art! a Friend at hand, to scareHis melancholy.

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