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" Still to ourselves in every place consign'd, 



" Our own felicity we make or find ; 



" With secret course, which no loud storms annoy, 



" Glides the smooth current of domestic joy. 



" The lifted axe, the agonizing wheel, 



" Luke's iron crown, and Damien's bed of steel, 



" To men remote from power but barely known, 



" Leave reason, faith, and conscience, all our own. 



