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He wildly errs who thinks I yield Precedence in the well-cloth'd field, Tho' mix'd with wheat I grow: Indulgent Ceres knew my worth, And to adorn the teeming earth, She bade the Poppy blow. Nor vainly gay the sight to please, But blest with pow'r mankind to ease, The goddess saw me rise: "Thrive with the life-supporting grain," She cried, "the solace of the swain, The cordial of his eyes.
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