No more than I for my poor deeds am paid,
Whom none can blame, will help, or dare upbraid.
"Call this our need, a bog that all devours—
Then what thy petty arts but summer-flowers,
Gaudy and mean, and serving to betray
The place they make unprofitably gay?
Who know it not, some useless beauties see—
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But ah! to prove it, was reserved for me."
Unhappy state! that, in decay of love,