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For my neighbour I'll not know, Whether high he builds or no: Only this I'll look upon, Firm be my foundation. Sound or unsound, let it be! 'Tis the lot ordain'd for me. He who to the ground does fall Has not whence to sink at all.

Play I could once; but, gentle friend, you see My harp hung up here on the willow tree. Sing I could once; and bravely, too, inspire With luscious numbers my melodious lyre. Draw I could once, although not stocks or stones, Amphion-like, men made of flesh and bones, Whither I would; but ah! I know not how, I feel in me this transmutation now. Grief, my dear friend, has first my harp unstrung, Wither'd my hand, and palsy-struck my tongue.

Only a little more I have to write, Then I'll give o'er, And bid the world good-night.