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The debt immense of endless gratitude, So burthensome, still paying, still to owe; Forgetful what from him I still receivd, And understood not that a grateful mind By owing owes not, but still pays, at once Indebted and dischargd; what burden then?
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Thus I set my printless feet O'er the cowslip's velvet head, That bends not as I tread.
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With diadem and sceptre high advanced, The lower still I fall; only supreme In misery; such joy ambition finds.
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How oft, in nations gone corrupt, And by their own devices brought down to servitude, That man chooses bondage before liberty. Bondage with ease before strenuous liberty.
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But pain is perfect misery, the worst Of evils, and excessive, overturns All patience.
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Without the meed of some melodious tear.
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I will not deny but that the best apology against false accusers is silence and sufferance, and honest deeds set against dishonest words.
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And join with thee, calm Peace and Quiet,Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet.
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Those graceful acts, those thousand decencies, that daily flow from all her words and actions, mixed with love and sweet compliance, which declare unfeigned union of mind, or in us both one soul.
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To adore the conqueror, who now beholds Cherub and seraph rolling in the flood.
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Still paying, still to owe. Eternal woe!
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The leaf was darkish, and had prickles on it, But in another country, as he said, Bore a bright golden flow'r, but not in this soil; Unknown, and like esteem'd, and the dull swain Treads on it daily with his clouted shoon.
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Yet I argue notAgainst Heav'n's hand or will, nor bate one jotOf heart or hope; but still bear up, and steerRight onward.
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Attic tragedies of stateliest and most regal argument.
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Of calling shapes, and beck'ning shadows dire, And airy tongues that syllable men's names.
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Well observe The rule of Not too much, by temperance taught In what thou eat'st and drink'st.
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Evil on itself shall back recoil.
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Athens, the eye of Greece, mother of arts And eloquence.
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Loneliness is the first thing which God's eye named not good.
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Freely they stood who stood, and fell who fell.
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The helmed Cherubim, And sworded Seraphim, Are seen in glittering ranks with wings display'd.
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I on the other side Us'd no ambition to commend my deeds; The deeds themselves, though mute, spoke loud the doer.
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No mighty trance, or breathed spell Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.
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Let her (Truth) and Falsehood grapple; who ever knew Truth put to the worse in a free and open encounter?