Much will he wonder, how thou cam'st to find
A man to glory dead, to peace consign'd.
'O Fame!' he'll cry, (for he will call thee Fame,)
'From thee I fly, from thee conceal my name.'
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But thou shalt say, 'Though Genius takes his flight,
He leaves behind a glorious train of light,
And hides in vain;—yet prudent he that flies
The flatterer's art, and for himself is wise.'
"Yes, happy child! I mark th' approaching day,