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And must my children all expire?
Shall none be left to strike the lyre?
Courts Death alone a learned prize?
Falls his shafts only on the wise?

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Can no fit marks on earth be found,
From useless thousands swarming round?
But must th' Ingenious drop alone?
Must Science only grace his throne?
Oh murd'rer of the tuneful train!
I charge thee, with my children slain!