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Oh! nurse of crimes and fashions! which in vain
Our colder servile spirits would attain,
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How do we ape thee, France! but, blundering still,
Disgrace the pattern by our want of skill.
The borrow’d step our awkward gait reveals:
(As clumsy Courtenay[[315]] mars the verse he steals.)
How do we ape thee, France!—nor claim alone
Thy arts, thy tastes, thy morals, for our own,