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Poems

By Mr. Polwhele. In three volumes

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But should thy language too luxuriant seem—
Too studied or elab'rate, trust the muse,
'Tis not in cloyster'd science to correct
The blemish. 'Tis in manner'd courts alone
Where observation hangs upon the lips
Of oral elegance, to lend that aid
No philologic theorist can supply.