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42

So we, the buskin and the sock who wear, And "strut and fret," our little season here, Dismiss'd at length, as Fortune bids divide— Some (lucky rogues!) sit down on Thames's side; Others to Liffy's western banks proceed, And some—driven far a-field, across the Tweed: But, pinion'd here, alas! I cannot fly: The hapless, unplumed, lingering straggler I! Unless the healing pity you bestow, Shall imp my shatter'd wings—and let me go.

Hard is his fate, whom evil stars have led To seek in scenic art precarious bread, While still, through wild vicissitudes afloat, A hero now, and now a Sans Culotte! That eleemosynary bread he gains Mingling—with real distresses—mimic pains.