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And thou, so fair and pale, 
That lovest ’mid grass and shadowing leaves to hide 
Thy modest charms, sweet Primrose, thee I hail, 
Reprover meek of vanity and pride. 
Alas that pride, which wrought 
Man’s woe in Paradise, should haunt him still, 
No hatred inmate, but with every thought 
Twined, closely twined, and prompting aye to ill. 
Oh ! when within my breast 
Such thoughts are stirring, do thou gently chide. 
And timely whisper from thy leafy nest, 
“ Shall Man be proud, to sin and death allied?” 
