To Mr. William Mason, on His Excellent Short-Hand

In a smooth train thy mystick figures flow,
And swiftest gales of eastern winds out-go.
Thy pen our words paints with the nicest care,
Before the fleeting voice dissolves in air:
Flying it draws the image of the mind,
Nor one idea wandring leaves behind.
Faithful as echo thy rare art is found,
Preserves the sense as it returns the sound.
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