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YE, who amid this feverish world would wear
A body free of pain, of cares a mind,
Fly the rank city, shun its turbid air ;
Breathe not the chaos of eternal smoke
And volatile corruption, from the dead,
The dying, sick'ning, and the living world
Exhal'd, to sully heaven's transparent dome
With dim mortality.
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While yet you breathe, away ; the rural wilds
Invite, the mountains call you, and the vales.— Armstrong
