Rich if thou art, they ask thy praises more,
And would thy patience, when they make thee poor.
But other thoughts within thy bosom reign,
And other subjects vex thy busy brain;
Poetic wreaths thy vainer dreams excite,
And thy sad stars have destined thee to write.
Then, since that task the ruthless fates decree,
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Take a few precepts from the Gods and me!
"Be not too eager in the arduous Chase: