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 9. wrought up by a prating son Eyeing, vying, we’re felly in a glide of spokes. In the grey world far from being better yoked Among the vultures and owly-fed, We viedevery hearer grazing, fled. Injured by strike and hard slip-stones, a child Raced with only steep-threaded wiles; Sighted, or bid pastures honest betrayed With plighted felt the sinking bay unbuoyed. Sought the nave miles out and hid under wheels As whelm through whelks, though a child in heels, The mob derided and flocked at those morose An easy fop in the world’s extant rose. The vying environed set lingering on the son, On the grey wife and whisked self off alone. ...

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