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 Hard is the task, but needful, if your aim Tends to the prospect of immortal fame. If some unfinisht numbers limp behind, When the warm poet rages unconfin'd, Then when his swift invention scorns to stay, By a full tide of genius whirl'd away; He brings the sov'reign cure their failings claim, Confirms the sickly, and supports the lame. Oft' as the seasons roll, renew thy pain, And bring the poem to the test again. In different lights th' expression must be rang'd, The garb and colours of the words be chang'd. With endless care thy watchful eyes must pierce, And mark the parts distinct of ev'ry verse. In this persist; for oft' one day denies The kind assistance which the next supplies; As oft', without your vigilance and care, Some faults detected by themselves appear. And now a thousand errors you explore, That lay involv'd in mantling clouds before. Oft' to improve his muse, the bard should try, By turns, the temper of a diff'rent sky. For