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[Music ]
WE Prophets of the Modern Race,
To hide rebellious Evil,
Pretend we all excel in Grace,
And fight against the Devil:
We range, we roam, we quake, we foam,
We breed by Inspiration,
We own the Call the Spirit moves,
And then the chosen Sister proves
By frequent Agitation.
Strange Miracles we ne'er unfold,
We scorn to understand 'em,
Those shewn the Mob in Days of Old,
Provok'd, but did not mend 'em;
We Cant in Tone,
We sigh, we groan,
Nor do our Whimseys tire us;
And tho' our Preaching be hum drum,
And writing senseless as Tom Thumb,
We still have Fools admire us.
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