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To feast his jolly mates in wood and wild; Yea, been the very arbiter of fortune, And as his freakish humors bit, hath lifted At one broad sweep the churl's fav'd gear to leave it In the poor lab'rer's cot, whose hard-worn palm Had never chuck'd a ducat 'gainst its fellow.

'Tis a brave heart! has he been long confined? But list! he sings again.

Poor pent up wretch! thy soul roves far from home.

'Tis even so, brave heart, or blunt or keen, Thy measure has its stint.