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The very thought of change I hate,
As much as of despair; Nor ever covet to be great, Unless it be for her.
'Tis true, the passion in my mind Is mix'd with soft distress; Yet while the fair I love is kind,
I cannot wish it less.
WHEN spring came on with fresh delight,
Green was her robe, and green her wreath,
Where'er she trod, 'twas green
Rais'd on a bank where daisies grew,
When they met, the dame and boy,
Dancing Graces, idle Joy,
Wanton Smiles, and airy Play,
Conspir'd to make the scene be gay;
Love pair'd the birds through all the grove,
'Tis thus, when spring renews the blood, They meet in every trembling wood, And thrice they make the plumes agree, And every dart they mount with three, dart can boast a kind,
Which suits each proper turn of mind.
From the towering eagle's plume
The generous hearts accept their doom:
The pies and parrots deck the darts,
All this, as late I chanced to rove,
I learn'd in yonder waving grove.
And see, says Love, who called me near,
How much I deal with Nature here,
And shakes and shuffles through the skies:
By which she links you, mind to mind,
GAY Bacchus liking Estcourt's wine,
The god near Cupid drew his chair.
The more to please the sprightly god,
Then Cupid nam'd at every glass
A lady of the sky;
While Bacchus swore he'd drink the lass, And had it bumper-high.
Fat Comus toss'd his brimmers o'er
And always got the most; Jocus took care to fill him more,
Whene'er he miss'd the toast.