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I L P BNS EROS O.
Hence, vain deluding joys,
The brood of Folly without father bred ! How little you bestead,
Or fill the fixed mind with all your toys! Dwell in some idle brain,
And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess, As thick and numberless
As the gay motes that people the sun-beams; Or likest hovering dreams,
The fickle pensioners of Morpheus' train.