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To Charles Lamb
To Charles Lamb

Thee I would think one of the many wise,
Who in Eliza's time sat eminent,
To our now world, as Purgatory, sent
To teach us what true English poets prize.
Pasquillant froth and foreign galliardize
Are none of thine; but, when of gay intent,
Thou usest staid old English merriment,
Mannerly mirth, which no one dare despise.
The scoffs and girds of our poor critic rout
Must move thy pity, as amidst their mime,
Monk of truth's order, from thy memories
Thou dost updraw sublime simplicities,
Grand thoughts that never can be wearied out,
Showing the unreality of time.

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