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“There are,” the sophist cries, “who never fail
O'er modern things and modern times to wail,
Their jaundiced gaze and discontented eye
Select the faulty and the good deny;
Pleas'd to condemn, with pharasaic pride
They preach and babble till their throats are dried;
Out on the whining gang! so pertly sage,
Long triumph yet our Saturnalian age!”