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102 Smooth like her vere her paions learn'd to move, And her whole oul was harmony and love. Virtue that breat without a conflict gain'd, And eay like a native monarch reign'd. On earth till favour'd as by heaven approv'd, The world applauded, and lov'd. With love, with health, with fame, and friendhip blet, And of a cheerful heart the contant feat, What more of blis incere could earth betow? What purer heaven could angels tate below? But blis from earth's vain cenes too quickly flies; The golden cord is broke— dies. Now in the leafy hade, and widow'd grove, Sad mourns her abent love. Now deep retir'd in enchanting vale, She pours her tuneful orrows on the gale; Without one fond reerve the world diclaims, And gives up all her oul to heavenly flames. Yet