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PAT Rox of all those luckless brains,
That, to the wrong fide leaning,

Indite much metre with much pains,
And little or no meaning.

Ah why, fince oceans, rivers, streams,
That water all the nations,

Pay tribute to thy glorious beams,
In constant exhalations,

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Ordain'd, perhaps, ere summer flies,
Combin’d with millions more,

To form an iris in the skies,
Though black and foul before.

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Though the pleasures of London exceed:
In number the days of the year,
Catharina, did nothing impede,
Would feel herself happier here;
For the close woven arches of limes,
On the banks of our river, I know,
Are sweeter to her many times

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