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Mean-time foul scurf and blotches him defile;}
And taunts he casten forth most bitterly.
Makes them renew their unmelodious moan ;
Occafioned by the
DEATH of Mr AIKMAN, a particular Friends
of the AUTHOR'S.
S those we love decay, we die in part,
String after string is fever'd from the heart;
eyes have wept o'er every friend laid low, Dragg’a ling'ring on from partial death to death, Till, dying, all he can resign is breath.
ELL me, thou soul of her I love,
Ah! tell me, whither art thou fied;
And sometimes share thy lover's woe ;
Can now, alas! no comfort know?
Oh! if thou hover'st round my walk,
While, under ev'ry well-known tree; I to thy fancy'd shadow talk,
And every tear is full of thee;