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ODE TO APOLLO.
ON AN INK-GLASS ALMOST DRIED IN THE SUN.
Patron of all those luckless brains,
That, to the wrong side leaning, Indite much metre with much pains,
And little or no meaning.
Ah why, since oceans, rivers, streams,
That water all the nations,
In constant exhalations:
Ordain'd, perhaps, ere fummer flies,
Combin'd with millions more, To form an iris in the skies,
Though black and foul before.
Though the pleasures of London exceed .
In number the days of the year, i Catharina, did nothing impede,
Would feel herself happier here; For the close-woven arches of limes,
On the banks of our river, I know, , .. Are sweeter to her many times
Than all that the city can show.'