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EPISTLE II.
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TO A FRIEND,
IN ANSWER TO
A MELANCHOLY LETTER.
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AWAY, those cloudy looks, that lab'ring sigh,
The peevish offspring of a sickly hour!
Nor meanly thus complain of Fortune's power,
When the blind Gamester throws a luckless die.
Yon setting Sun flashes a mournful gleam
Behind those broken clouds, his stormy train:
