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The dancing pair that simply sought renown, By holding out to tire each other down; The swain mistrustless of his smutted face,While secret laughter titter'd round the place; The bashful virgin's side-long looks of love, The matrons glance that would those looks reprove: These were thy charms, sweet village; sports like these, With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please; These were thy bowers their cheerful influence shed, These were thy charms -- but all these charms are fled. -Oliver Goldsmith, Deserted Village, The