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Phoebus' self, too, needs must love thee;They their silver voices gave thee,Age can never steal upon thee.Wise and gentle friend of poets,Born a creature fleshless, bloodless,Though Earth's daughter, free from suff'ring,To the gods e'en almost equal.

To Psyche the poetic art;Prosaic-pure her soul remain'd.No wondrous sounds escaped her lyre

O'er the smooth lake.All for a purpose move,