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214 To poets who were taught by Heaven,
 * And poets who have taught themselves.

To wits, whose thistle-shafts by flowers
 * Are hid, their points in balsam dipped;

To humor, in his happiest hours,
 * And punsters—if their wings are clipped.

But friendship, with her smiling features,
 * Will come, ’tis hoped, without a call;

For though your wits are clever creatures,
 * One line of hers is worth them all.

Let names of heroes and of sages,
 * On history’s leaf eternal be;

A few brief years on Beauty’s pages
 * Are worth their immortality.

At least this charmèd book permits us
 * To brave oblivion’s withering power,

Till she who summons us, forgets us;
 * And who would live beyond that hour?