'T IS true that me with roses crown'd
The tear of Sympathy has found,
And been at once obey'd;
That Pleasures light, and Beauty's flower,
Have sunk when pale Misfortune's hour
Implor'd Compassion's aid.

'Tis true that, in the moral grief,
I never ask'd, or wish'd relief,
Nor envy'd playful ease:
But Nature's pride the charm has wrought,
And Love the feeling heart has taught,
How dearly Pain can please.
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