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Thou hat no friend!—till on the worthlee Traine Thy kindnee flowd, and till with corne repaid; Even he on whom thy favours heapt remain, Even he regards thee with a boome dead To kindly paion, and by motives led Such as the Planter of his Negro deems; What profit till can of the wretch be made Is all his care, of more he never dreams: So, farre remote from her, thy troubles he eteems.

Thy Children too! Heavens! what a hopelee ight! Ah, wretched Syre!—but ever from this cene The wretched Syre precipitates his flight, And in the Bowls wylde fever huns his teene. So pas his dayes, while What he might have beene Its beauteous views does every morne present: So pas his dayes, while till the raven Croaks in his eares, The brightet parts mipent Beget an hoarie age of griefe and dicontent.