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The man who grinds the poor, who wrests the right, Aweless of Heaven, stands naked to their sight: For thrice ten thousand holy spirits rove This breathing world, the delegates of Jove; Guardians of man, their glance alike surveys The upright judgments and the unrighteous ways.
But when that love is real, what can amuse, what engage the mind, to banish, for a single instant, the object of its delight? It hates every necessity that wrests it an instant from the contemplation of its beauties; its virtues are ever presenting themselves to increase our regret, and suggest innumerable fears for its safety. Such have been the occupations of this day.
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