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For shelter here, to fun the noon-day heat, An airy nation of the Flies retreat ; Some in soft air their filken pinions ply, And some from bough to bough delighted fly, Some rise, and circling light to perch again ; A pleasing murmur hums along the plain. So, when a stage invites to pageant shows, (If great and small are like) appear the beaus ; In boxes fome with spruce pretension fit, Some change from seat to seat within the pit, Some roam the scenes, or turning cease to roam ; Preluding music fills the lofty dome.
When thus a Flie (if what a Flie can say Deferves attention) rais’d the rural lay.
Where late Amintor made a nymph a bride, Joyful I few by young Favonia's fide, Who, mindless of the feasting, went to fip The balmy pleasure of the shepherd's lip. I saw the Wanton, where I stoop'd to sup, And half refoly'd to drown me in the
'Till brush'd by careless hands, she soar'd above : Cease, Beauty, cease to vex a tender love.
Thus ends the Youth, the buzzing meadow rung, And thus the rival of his music sung.
When suns by thousands shone in orbs of dew, I wafted soft with Zephyretta few; Saw the clean pail, and fought the milky chear, While little Daphne seiz'd my roving Dear. Wretch that I was ! I might have warn’d the dame, Yet sat indulging as the danger came, But the kind huntress left her free to foar : Ah! guard, ye Lovers, guard a mistress more.
Thus from the fern, whose high-projecting arms, The fleeting nation bent with dusky swarms, The swains their love in easy music breathe, When tongues and tumult stun the field beneath. Black ants in teams come darkning all the road, Some call to march, and some to lift the load; They strain, they labour with incessant pains, Press’d by the cumb'rous weight of single grains.
The Alies struck silent gaze with wonder down:
Ye foolish nurslings of the summer air,
pay such fongsters idling at my gate. He ceas'd : the Flies, incorrigibly vain, Heard the May’r's speech, and fell to sing again.
An ELEGY, to an Old BEAUTY.
N vain, poor Nymph, to please our youthful sight
You sleep in cream and frontlets all the night, Your face with patches foil, with paint repair, Dress with gay gowns, and shade with foreign hair. If truth in spight of manners must be told, Why really fifty-five is something old.
Once you were young; or one, whose life's so long She might have borne my mother, tells me wrong. And once, since envy's dead before you dye, The women own, you play'd a sparkling eye, Taught the light foot a modith little trip, And pouted with the prettiest purple lip
To some new Charmer are the roses fed, Which blew, to damask all thy cheek with red Youth calls the Graces there to fix their reign, And airs by thousands fill their easy train.
So parting summer bids her fow'ry prime
But thou, since Nature bids, the world resign,
Let time that makes you homely, make you sage, The sphere of wisdom is the sphere of age.