Poets attempt the noblest task they can,
Praising the Author of all good in man,
And, next, commemorating Worthies lost,
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Other stones the era tell,
When some feeble mortal fell;
I stand here to date the birth
Of these hardy sons of earth.
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William was once a bashful youth,
His modesty was such,
That one might say, to say the truth,
He rather had too much.
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Trust me the meed of praise, dealt thriftily
From the nice scale of judgement, honours more
Than does the lavish and o'erbearing tide
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To those who love the Lord I speak;
Is my Beloved near?
The Bridegroom of my soul I seek,
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Pity, says the Theban bard,
From my wishes I discard;
Envy, let me rather be,
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You give your cheks a rosy stain,
With washes dye your hair;
But paint and washes both are vain
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Hermocratia named -- save only one --
Twice fifteen births I bore, and buried none;
For neither Phoebus pierced my thriving joys,
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To those who love the Lord I speak;
Is my Beloved near?
The Bridegroom of my soul I seek,
Oh! when will He appear?
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In vain ye woo me to your harmless joys,
Ye pleasant bowers, remote from strife and noise;
Your shades, the witnesses of many a vow,
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