Only to set their feelings on an edge;
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And now at eve, when all their spirits rise,
Are sent to rest, and all their pleasure dies;
Where yet they all the town alert can see,
And distant plough-boys pacing o'er the lea.
These and the tasks successive masters brought—
The French they conn'd, the curious works they wrought,
The hours they made their taper fingers strike,
Note after note, all dull to them alike;