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The wretch whom poverty subdues,
Scarce dares to raise his tearful eye,
Or if by chance the throng he views,,
His loudest murmur is a sigh..

The poor wan Mother! at whose breast
The pining Infant craves relief,
In one thin tatter'd garment drest,
Walks forth to pour the plaint of grief.

But ah how little heeded pair!
The faultering tongue reveals its woe,
For high born Fools with frown austere,
Condemn the pangs they never know.

Take Physic Pomp! let reason say,
What can avail thy trappings rare,
The Tomb shall close thy glittering day,
The Beggar prove thy equal there.

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