What then remains, but well our power to use, And keep good-humor still whate'er we lose? And trust me, dear, good-humor can prevail, When airs, and flights, and screams, and scolding fail.
One thought of thee puts all the pomp to flight; Priests, tapers, temples, swim before my sight.
Fly, dotard, fly! With thy wise dreams and fables of the sky.
Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly! O grave! where is thy victory? O death! where is thy sting?
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