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Tho' time, as its shadows and sorrows pass by,
Darkens many a tint, fancy brighten'd in vain;
Their shade it will flit, like the clouds o'er the sky,
And the picture be colour'd as gaily again.
Unlike the Pactolus, which glisten'd of old,
But whose waves have exhausted their own brilliant store;
The fountain of hope is still sparkling with gold,
And often applied to, but proffers the more.
