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 It is impossible to 'scape from toil O' the sudden, and receive thy spiriting: The flower must drink the nature of the soil Before it can put forth its blossoming: Be with me in the summer days, and I Will for thine honor and his pleasure try.

 

 

! how sweetly sad thy melody! Attuning still the soul to tenderness, As if soft Pity, with unusual stress, 