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92 Without the added rage of Scythian kies? The now of time my vital heat exhaut, And hoary age, without Sarmatian frot?

&emsp;Yet torm and tempet are of ills the leat Which this inhopitable land infet: Society than olitude is wore, And man to man is till the greatet cure. A avage race my fearful teps urround, Practis'd in blood and diciplin'd to wound; Unknown alike to pity as to fear, Hard as their oil, and as their kies evere. Skill'd in each mytery of diret art, They arm with double death the poion'd dart. Uncomb'd and horrid grows their piky hair; Uncouth their veture, terrible their air. The lurking dagger at their ide hung low, Leaps in quick vengeance on the haples foe. No