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There dwells the chief we all extol In timber house on lightsome knoll; Upon four wooden columns proud Mounteth his mansion to the cloud; Each column's thick and firmly bas'd, And upon each a loft is plac'd; In these four lofts, which coupled stand, Repose at night the minstrel band; Four lofts they were in pristine state, But now partitioned form they eight.
Look there, 'tis spread, Venture a little further, thou art dead. Is there not room enough in all the field For thee to play in, but thou needs must yield To the deceitful glitt'ring of a glass, Plac'd betwixt nets, to bring thy death to pass?
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