Plac'd from thy Sphere, amid the sons of shame,
Proud of thy Jest, but prouder of thy Name.
Pernicious streams from healthy fountains rise,
And Wit abus'd degenerates into vice;
Timon, long practic'd in the School of art,
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Has lost each finer feeling of the Heart,
Triumphs o'er shame, and with delusive whiles,
Laughs at the Idiot he himself beguiles.
So matrons, past the awe of Censure's tongue,