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Now, hie thee hence, and dream no more 
Of hermit’s cell, and frugal store; 
Of skull, of maple-dish, or glass 
Which marks how swift the hours do pass; 
But ply in Duty’s path thy feet, 
’Tis likeliest there sweet Peace thou’It meet; 
And, if a lowly heart be thine, 
Be sure she ’ll make that heart her shrine. 
