No! we will shield him from the storm he fears,
And when he falls, embalm him with our tears.
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Farewell to these: but all our poor to know,
Let’s seek the winding Lane, the narrow Row,
Suburban prospects, where the traveller stops
To see the sloping tenement on props,
With building-yards immix’d, and humble sheds and shops;
Where the Cross-Keys and Plumber’s-Arms invite
Laborious men to taste their coarse delight;