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Formed only by the artificial world. We grow there selfish and indifferent; We take up cunning for defence, and deem— How foolishly!—'tis wisdom: vanity, Too strongly nourished and too early taught, Makes every object, like a mirror, yield Some likeness of ourselves; and we but see Our own small interests, and our weak desires, In all around; and we exaggerate Our merits and our claims; unsatisfied, As the false estimate must ever be, It ends in disappointment; and then comes Envy and hate, anger and bitterness; While life, a constant fever, has no joy In nature, or in meditation lone. Such was my youth: I lived but for myself; My gentle mother only asked to see A smile upon the face she loved so well; And my proud father, in his bold career Of war and council, had but time to think Indulgence was affection. Yet not glad, Albeit so glittering, was my hour of youth; It had its vain desires, hopes mortified, Its envyings and repinings. I was young, And rich, and (I may say so now) was beautiful; But so were many; and to vanity The triumph which it shares is incomplete. Before a year of festival had passed,