Exil'd, grown old, in Poverty and Pain

Exil'd, grown old, in Poverty and Pain;
Philosophy could calm the Poet's Breast:
But oh! what cure for those who wish in Vain?
What Lesson is it must restore my Rest?

Let others court the mighty Idol Fame;
Let all the World forget Clarinda's Name,
I could lose all that Avarice requires
Or all that Beauty that the World admires,
This only greife I cannot bear or cure,
The firmness of my Soul gives way,
Some pitying Power behold what I endure.
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