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Here lies honest William*,
whose heart was a mint, While the owner ne'er knew half the good that was in't; The pupil of impulse, it forced him along, His conduct still right, with his argument wrong; Still aiming at honour, yet fearing to roam, The coachman was tipsy, the chariot drove home; Would you ask for his merits? alas! he had none; What was good was spontaneous, his faults were his own.
*William |
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