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If by dull
rhymes our English must be chained, And, like
Andromeda, the Sonnet sweet Fettered, in spite of
pained loveliness; Let us find out, if we must be
constrained, Sandals more interwoven and complete
To fit the naked foot of poesy; Let us inspect the
lyre, and weigh the stress Of every chord, and see
what may be gained By ear industrous, and attention
meet; Misers of sound and syllable, no less Than
Midas of his coinage, let us be Jealous of dead
leaves in the bay wreath crown; So, if we may not let
the Muse be free, She will be bound with garlands of
her own
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