Chords are touch'd by Apollo, the death-laden bow, too, he bendeth;
While he the shepherdess charms, Python he lays in the dust.
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What is merciful censure? To make thy faults appear smaller?
May be to veil them? No, no! O'er them to raise thee on high!
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Democratic food soon cloys on the multitude's stomach;
But I'll wager, ere long, other thou'lt give them instead.
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What in France has pass'd by, the Germans continue to practise,
For the proudest of men flatters the people and fawns.
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Who is the happiest of men? He who values the merits of others,
And in their pleasure takes joy, even as though 'twere his own.
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Not in the morning alone, not only at mid-day he charmeth;
Even at setting, the sun is still the same glorious planet.