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Who from the terror of this arm so late

Doubted his empire; that were low indeed,

That were an ignominy and shame beneath

This downfall; since, by fate, the strength of gods,

And this empyreal substance, cannot fail:

Since, through experience of this great event,

In arms not worse, in foresight much advanced,

We may with more successful hope resolve

To wage by force or guile eternal war,

Irreconcileable to our grand foe,

Who now triumphs, and in the excess of joy

Sole reigning holds the tyranny of heaven.

Milton.

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THE PROGRESS OF POESY.

Youth rambles on life's arid mount,

And strikes the rock, and finds the vein,

And brings the water from the fount,

The fount which shall not flow again.

The man mature with labour chops

For the bright stream a channel grand,

And sees not that the sacred drops
Ran off and vanished out of hand.

AETATES POETAE.

Ire libet iuveni deserta per ardua vitae;

fausta manus rupem percutit, unda salit: prolicit arcanum iuvenis de fonte liquorem,

unde nihil posthac prolicietur aquae. ille viro labor est, opus exercere ligonis,

alveus ut pa teat cui data lympha micet. nescit enim tenues divino e flumine guttas,

cum semel exierint, deperiisse semel.

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