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cold, nor stern, my soul! yet I detest
 * These scented Rooms, where, to a gaudy throng,

Heaves the proud Harlot her distended breast,
 * In intricacies of laborious song.

These feel not Music's genuine power, nor deign
 * To melt at Nature's passion-warbled plaint;

But when the long-breath'd singer's uptrill'd strain
 * Bursts in a squall—they gape for wonderment.

Hark! the deep buzz of Vanity and Hate!
 * Scornful, yet envious, with self-torturing sneer

My lady eyes some maid of humbler state,
 * While the pert Captain, or the primmer Priest,
 * Prattles accordant scandal in her ear.

O give me, from this heartless scene releas'd,
 * To hear our old musician, blind and grey,

(Whom stretching from my nurse's arms I kist,)
 * His Scottish tunes and warlike marches play,