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 How oft' in Tybur's cold retreats to lye Beneath the rigor of the wintry sky; And gladly stoop to cheerful poverty! But yet how many curse their fruitless toil, Who turn and cultivate a barenbarren [sic] soil? This, e're too late, the master may divine By a sure omen, and a certain sign; The hopeful youth, determin'd by bis choice, Works without precept, and prevents advice, Consults his teacher, plies his task with joy, And a quick sense of glory fires the boy. He challenges the rest.---the conquest o'er; He struts away the victor of an hour. Then vanquisht in his turn; o'erwhelm'd with care, He weeps, he pines, he sickens with despair; Nor looks his little rivals in the face, But flies for shelter to some lonely place, To hide his shame, and cover his disgrace. His master's frowns impatient to sustain, StraitStraight [sic] he returns, and wins the day again. This is the boy his better fates design To rise the future darling of the nine; For