ON HIS LYING IN THE SAME BED WHICH WILMOT, THE CELEBRATED EARL OF
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With no poetic ardour fired,I press the bed where Wilmot lay;That here he loved, or here expired,Begets no numbers, grave or gay. 2 Beneath thy roof, Argyll, are bredSuch thoughts as prompt the brave to lieStretch'd out in honour's nobler bed,Beneath a nobler roof--the sky. 3 Such flames as high in patriots burn,Yet stoop to bless a child or wife;And such as wicked kings may mourn,When freedom is more dear than life.
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