The Blind Boy
O say what is that thing call'd Light, Which I must ne'er enjoy; what are the blessings of the sight, O tell your poor blind boy! You talk of wondrous things you see, you say the sun shines bright, I feel him warm, but how can he Or make it day or ningt? My day or night myself I make Whene'er I sleep or play; And could I ever keep awake With me twere alwaya day. With heavy sighs I often hear You mourn my hapless woe; But sure with pattence I can bear A loss I ne're can know. Then let not what I cannot have My cheer of mind destroy; Whilst thus I sing ,I am a king, Although a poor blind boy. C.CIBBER |
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