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For fhelter here, to fhun 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 rife, 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 ;S In boxes fome with spruce pretenfion fit, Some change from seat to seat within the pit, Some roam the fcenes, or turning cease to roam; Preluding mufic 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 flew 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 ftoop'd to fup, And half refolv'd to drown me in the cup;

'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 mufic fung.

When funs by thousands fhone in orbs of dew, I wafted foft with Zephyretta flew ;

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 fat 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 fwains their love in eafy mufic 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 ftrain, they labour with inceffant pains, Prefs'd by the cumb'rous weight of fingle grains. The

The flies ftruck filent gaze with wonder down:
The bufy burghers reach their earthy town;
Where lay the burthens of a wint❜ry store,
And thence unwearied part in search of more.
Yet one grave fage a moment's space attends,
And the small city's loftieft point ascends,

Wipes the falt dew that trickles down his face,
And thus harangues them with the graveft grace.

Ye foolish nurflings of the fummer air, These gentle tunes and whining songs forbear; Your trees and whisp'ring breeze, your grove and Your Cupid's quiver, and his mother's dove: [love, Let bards to bufinefs bend their vig'rous wing, And fing but feldom, if they love to fing: Elfe, when the flourets of the season fail, And this your ferny fhade forfakes the vale, Tho' one would fave ye, not one grain of wheat, Should pay fuch fongfters idling at my gate.

He ceas'd the Flies, incorrigibly vain, Heard the May'r's speech, and fell to fing again.


An ELEGY, to an Old BEAUTY.


N vain, poor Nymph, to please our youthful fight
You sleep in cream and frontlets all the night,
Your face with patches foil, with paint repair,
Drefs with gay gowns, and shade with foreign hair.
If truth in fpight of manners must be told,
Why really fifty-five is fomething old.

Once you were young; or one, whose life's fo long
She might have borne my mother, tells me wrong.
And once, fince envy's dead before you dye,
The women own, you play'd a sparkling eye,
Taught the light foot a modish little trip,
And pouted with the prettieft purple lip-

To fome new Charmer are the roses fled,
Which blew, to damask all thy cheek with red;
Youth calls the Graces there to fix their reign,
And airs by thoufands fill their easy train.


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So parting fummer bids her flow'ry prime
Attend the fun to drefs fome foreign clime,
While with'ring seasons in fucceffion, here,
Strip the gay gardens, and deform the year.

But thou, fince Nature bids, the world refign,
'Tis now thy daughter's daughter's time to shine.
With more addrefs, or fuch as pleases more,
She runs her female exercises o'er,
Unfurls her closes, raps or turns the fan,
And smiles, or blushes at the creature man.
With quicker life, as gilded coaches pass,
In fideling courtesy she drops the glass.
With better strength, on vifit-days the bears
To mount her fifty flights of ample stairs.
Her mien, her shape, her temper, eyes and tongue
Are fure to conquer.for the rogue is young;
And all that's madly wild, or oddly gay,
We call it only pretty Fanny's way.

Let time that makes you homely, make you sage, The sphere of wisdom is the sphere of age.

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