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I hear the spiritual, the kind, The pure, but named in mirth; Till all of good, ay, even hope, Seems exiled from our earth.

And one fear, withering ridicule, Is all that I can dread; A sword hung by a single hair For ever o'er the head.

We bow to a most servile faith, In a most servile fear; While none among us dares to say What none will choose to hear.