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This fading eye and withering mien Tell what a sufferer I have been,
Since more and more estranged, From hope to hope, from scene to scene,
Through Folly's wilds I ranged.
Then fields and woods I proudly spurn'd ; From Nature's maiden love I turn'd,
And wooed the enchantress Art ; Yet while for her my fancy burn'd
Cold was my wretched heart,—
Till, distanced in Ambition's race, Weary of Pleasure's joyless chace.
My peace untimely slain, Sick of the world, - I turn'd my face
To fields and woods again.
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