Loss And Gain
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irtue runs before the museAnd defies her skill,She is rapt, and doth refuseTo wait a painter's will. Star-adoring, occupied,Virtue cannot bend her,Just to please a poet's pride,To parade her splendor. The bard must be with good intentNo more his, but hers,Throw away his pen and paint,Kneel with worshippers. Then, perchance, a sunny rayFrom the heaven of fire,His lost tools may over-pay,And better his desire.
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