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Taught her to cherish still in either eye,
Of tender tears a plentiful supply,
And pour them in the brooks that babbled by;
Taught by nice scale to mete her feelings strong,
False by degrees, and exquisitely wrong;
For the crush’d beetle, first,—the widow’d dove,
And all the warbled sorrows of the grove;
Next for poor suff’ring Guilt; and last of all,
For parents, friends, a king and country’s fall.