She bids thy thoughts one hour from greatness stray,
And leads thee on to fame a shorter way;
Where, if no withering laurel's thy reward,
There's shouting Conscience, and a grateful Bard;
A bard untrained in all but misery's school,
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Who never bribed a knave or praised a fool.
'Tis Glory prompts, and, as thou read'st, attend;
She dictates pity, and becomes my friend;
She bids each cold and dull reflection flee,