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Apollo there, with aim so clever,
Stretches his leaden bow for ever;
And there, without the pow'r to fly,
Stands fix'd, a tip-toe Mercury.

The villa thus completely grac'd,
All own that Thrifiy has a taste;
And Madam's female friends, and coufins,
With common-council-men, by dozens,
Flock every Sunday to the feat,
To stare about them, and to eat.

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