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I hate the bard who strolls along,
And sells in streets his borrow'd song;
I seldom walk the public way,
Where here and there the vulgar stray;
Inconstant friends I never court,
Nor to the common spring resort.
I still despise the rabble's rage,
Nor with the noisy crowd engage;
'Tis fine, 'tis fine, a reader cries;
Indignant Echo thus replies,
Tho' ne'er so good, perhaps divine,
Another bard wrote ev'ry line.