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Though our wise-ones call thee madness
Let me never taste of gladness
If I love not thy maddest fits
More than all their greatest wits.70
And though some too, seeming holy,
Do accout thy raptures folly,
Thou dost teach me to contenm
What makes knaves and fools of them.
Oh high Power! that oft doth carry
Men above . . . . .
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