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Still, to ourselves, in every place consign'd,
Our own felicity we make, or find:

With secret course, which no loud storms annoy,
Glides the smooth current of domestick joy.
The lifted axe, the agonizing wheel,

Luke's iron crown, and Damien's bed of steel,
To men remote from power, but rarely known,
Leave reason, faith, and conscience, all our own.

THE

DESERTED VILLAGE.

BY

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

PRINTED IN

1769.

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