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98 More weet than oftet touch of Doric reed, Or Lydian flute, can ooth the madding winds, And thro' the tormy deep Breathe thy own tender calm.

Thee, bet belov'd! the virgin train await With ongs and fetial rites, and joy to rove Thy blooming wilds among, And vales and dewy lawns,

With untir'd feet; and cull thy earliet weets To weave freh garlands for the glowing brow Of him, the favour'd youth That prompts their whiper'd igh.

Unlock thy copious tores; thoe tender howers That drop their weetnes on the infant buds, And ilent dews that well The milky ear's green tem,