Who fears; but has, amid his fears confess'd,
The conscious virtue of a Muse oppressed;
A Muse in changing times and stations nursed,
By nature honour'd and by fortune cursed.
No servile strain of abject hope she brings,
Nor soars presumptuous, with unwearied wings;
But, pruned for flight—the future all her care—
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Would know her strength, and, if not strong, forbear.
The supple slave to regal pomp bows down,