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'Not a child: I call myself a boy,' Says my king, with accent stern yet mild, Now nine years have brought him change of joy; 'Not a child.'

How could reason be so far beguiled, Err so far from sense's safe employ, Stray so wide of truth, or run so wild?

Seeing his face bent over book or toy, Child I called him, smiling: but he smiled Back, as one too high for vain annoy— Not a child.