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Friends in their very love unjust, Or faithless to our utmost trust; Or fortune's gifts, to win so hard; Or fame, that is its own reward Or has no other, and is worn Mid envy, falsehood, hate, and scorn?

All these ills had that young bard known, And they had laid his funeral stone. Slowly and sad the numbers pass'd, As thus the minstrel sung his last.

Count held a feast that night, And colour'd lamps sent forth their odorous light