Gave her the Tortures of a weary Soul,
Meets—may he not?—the jovial Eye of Day,
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With a depictur'd Laughter in his Cheek,
Or the smoothe Visage of habitual Ease?
How have I mourn'd my Lot, as if the Fates
Cull'd me, the vilest from their pitchy Stores
That ere in Mortal Bosom planted Woe,
And pain'd the Care-fraught Soul! I'll grieve no more,
But, take it patient with a sober hope,