For every maid is willing to be won.
Before the lords of verse a suppliant stand,
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And beg our passage through the fairy land:
Beg more—to search for sweets each blooming field,
And crop the blossoms woods and valleys yield;
To snatch the tints that beam on Fancy's bow,
And feel the fires on Genius' wings that glow;
Praise without meanness, without flattery stoop,
Soothe without fear, and without trembling hope.