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38 For here forlorn and ad I it, Within the wiry grate; And tremble at th' approaching morn, Which brings impending fate.

If e'er thy breat with freedom glow'd, And purn'd a tyrant's chain, Let not thy trong oppreive force A free-born moue detain.

Oh! do not tain with guiltles blood Thy hopitable hearth; Nor triumph that thy wiles betray'd A prize o little worth.

The catter'd gleanings of a feat My frugal meals upply; But if thine unrelenting heart That lender boon deny, The