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B. B.
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Floateth in upon my senses now the melody of brooks,
And the drip of fragrant waters, far in solitary nooks—
O avaunt! ye tedious tasks! O get ye gone! ye irksome books.
Why to linger pent and stifled in this chamber small and low,
Through the casement on my temples thus to feel the breezes blow,
Bidding me to come and follow where at liberty they go?
Why amid this noisy Babel mingle in the petty strife,