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a web of many textures

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O, the wild fever of this mad unrest,
When baffled man, amid his hopes and fears,
Smites in despair his over-anxious breast,
Not knowing in the dark which way he steers;
With brokers on his lee, and subtle sands,
That late seemed stones, but now prove naught but stocks;
He wrings imploringly his trembling hands,
And, just like those in Scripture, prays the rocks
May fall upon him — but prefers the sort
From California; and, howe'er their power,
'T would be to him, just now, delightful sport
To stand and weather the auriferous shower,
Begging propitious Fortune to let down
Boulders of any size — he 'll risk his crown.