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I' weary, I'm weary,—this cold world of ours; I will go dwell afar, with fairies and flowers. Farewell to the festal, the hall of the dance, Where each step is a study, a falsehold [sic] each glance; Where the vain are displaying, the vapid are yawning; Where the beauty of night, the glory of dawning, Are wasted, as Fashion, that tyrant, at will Makes war on sweet Nature, and exiles her still.