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Poem	WHY, why repine, my pensive friend, At pleasures slipp'd away? Some the stern Fates will never lend, And all refuse to stay. I see the rainbow in the sky, The dew upon the grass; I see them, and I ask not why They glimmer or they pass. With folded arms I linger not To call them back; 'twere vain: In this, or in some other spot, I know they'll shine again.
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