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Rh Sweet Peace! thou wert not much to blame, If thou shouldst loathe the very name
 * Of Clinton, or of John Targee.

For us, enthroned in elbow-chair,
 * Thy foes alone with ink we sprinkle;

We love to smooth the cheek of care, Until we leave no furrow there,
 * Save laughter’s evanescent wrinkle.

With thee and mirth, we’ll quit the throng—
 * Each hour shall see our pleasures vary;

Jarvis shall bring his Cats along, And Lynch shall float in floods of song
 * Pure as his highest-priced Madeira!

D.