Chapter 13 Lamb.

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TO EVENING

If aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song,

May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear,

Like thy own brawling springs,

Thy springs, and dying gales;

O Nymph reserved, while now the bright-hair'd sun

Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts,

With brede ethereal wove,

O'erhang his wavy bed:

Now ai