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 For him the muses weave the sacred crown, And bright Apollo claims him for his own. Not the least hope th' unactive youth can raise, Dead to the prospect, and the sense of praise; Who your just rules with dull attention hears, Nor lends his understanding, but his ears. Resolv'd his parts in indolence to keep, He lulls his drowzydrowsy [sic] faculties asleep; The wretch your best endeavours will betray, And the superfluous care is thrown away.


 * the bard who ripens e'erere [sic] his prime;

For all productions there's a proper time. Oh! may no apples in the spring appear, Out-grow the seasons, and prevent the year, Nor mellow yet, 'till autumn stains the vine, And the full presses foam with floods of wine. Tom from the parent-tree too soon, they lye Trod down by every swain who passes by.


 * should the youth too strictly be confin'd,

'Tis sometimes proper to unbend his mind; When