Swift without violence, without terror great.
* * * * * *
In those fair fields where sacred Isis glides,
Or else where Cam his winding vales divides?
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RGB: 255 162 87
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A short vicissitude, and fit of poverty:
A savoury dish, a homely treat,
Where all is plain, where all is neat,
Without the stately spacious room,
The Persian carpet, or the Tyrian loom,
Clear up the cloudy foreheads of the great.
