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LINES, in addition to the treasure
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Of poesy, culled for the pleasure |
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Of beau and belle and gentle dame, |
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When seated round the evening flame, |
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What time the social hour is waning, |
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And tardy coachman guests detaining,— |
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A courteous friend hath bid me write |
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Upon her Album's pages white. |
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But age the easy grace hath lost |
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That would become such pages most, |
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While of a quondam rhymester's skill, |
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Scarce aught is extant but the will; |
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And sober, stinted age must use |
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The school-girl's worn and stale excuse, |
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When, long her correspondent's debtor, |
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The apology becomes the letter. |
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Apologies for those who need 'em! |
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An Album is a thing of freedom, |
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Receiving all with right good will |
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That fortune sends from many a quill, |
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And then displays like scaly store |
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Which fisher's net brings to the shore: |
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The herring sheathed in silvery green, |
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The whiting in its pearly sheen, |
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The lithe and wavy eel that glides |
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Athwart the mackerel's tabbied sides; |
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John Dory with his dolphin head, |
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Where amber fins like horns are spread, |
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And flounder, sole, and thornback, all |
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In turn on some observer call |
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To mark each varied form and tint; |
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And from this simile a hint |
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Of some encouragement I take, |
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And humbly this my offering make, |
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Which if received with favour, truly |
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Will shew that I have reckoned duly |
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On what might homelier things commend,— |
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On the good nature of a friend. |