The Poet and the Rector

" Foe to the heart's poetic style,
Dull Avarice , the Rector's bile,
Corroding jaundice of the mind,
For — — , not for me design'd;
Away to funds of Bank Exchange ,
Nor visions of the Nine derange. "
" The Nine? " said Avarice, " I 'll have eight;
An eighth allotment is my due: "
Away the laughing Muses flew.
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