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All was repoe, all but Syr Martyns bret; There, Paions tearing guts tempetuous rie. Are thee, he murmurs, thee my friends! the bet That croud my hall! the Sonnes of madning Noie, Whoe warmet friendhip with the revel dies? Whoe glee it were my dearet peace detroy, Who with my woes could port, my wrongs depie; Could round my coffin pledge the cup of Joy, And on my crimes even then their bae-tongued witt employ:

Whoe convere, oft as fulom Bawdrie fails, Takes up the barkings of Impiety, The Scepticks wild dijointed dreams retails, These modern ravings of Philoophy Made drunk, the Cavil, the detected Ly, The witt of Ignorance, and Glos unfair, Which honet Dullnes would with hame deny; The hope of Baenes vaumpt in Candours air: Good Heaven! are uch the friends that to my hearth repair!