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When Bringhurst and Wilkins are here
   Diffusing the smiles of content
My bosom shall banish its fear
   My sorrow shall quickly relent.

No longer be moistened the eye
   The hours no longer in weeping
Be spent, nor the eloquent sigh
   No longer prevent me from sleeping.

No longer embellish the page
   With emblems of gloomy despair
Or struggle to temper its rage
   Or lighten the burthen of care.

With accents of musical woe
   Attuned to the voice of the flute
In teaching Æolus to blow
   Or vocalizing the lute.

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But sitting securely together
   We order the door to be shut
We pass from the news and the weather
   To shuffle, to deal, and to cut.

In tale of fictitious distress
   In study or converse the day—
At ombre or chequers or chess
   The even shall vanish away.

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