We meet, but ah! without our wonted smile,
To talk of headaches, and complain of bile;
Sullen, we ponder o'er a dull repast,
Nor feast the body while the mind must fast.
A master-passion is the love of news,
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Not music so commands, nor so the Muse:
Give poets claret, they grow idle soon;
Feed the musician, and he's out of tune;
But the sick mind, of this disease possess'd,