For fhelter here, to fhun the noon-day heat, An airy nation of the Flies retreat ; Some in foft air their filken pinions ply, And fome from bough to bough delighted fly, When thus a Flie (if what a Flie can say Where late Amintor made a nymph a bride, Joyful I flew by young Favonia's fide, Who, mindless of the feafting, went to fip And half refolv'd to drown me in the cup; 'Till brush'd by careless hands, she soar'd above: Ceafe, 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, But the kind huntress left her free to foar: ; The The flies ftruck filent gaze with wonder down: Wipes the falt dew that trickles down his face, And thus harangues them with the gravest grace. Ye foolish nurflings of the fummer air, These gentle tunes and whining fongs forbear; Your trees and whifp'ring breeze, your grove and Your Cupid's quiver, and his mother's dove: [love, Let bards to business 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 fongsters idling at my gate. He ceas'd the Flies, incorrigibly vain, : Heard the May'r's speech, and fell to fing again. AN An ELEGY, to an Old BEAUTY. N vain, poor Nymph, to please our youthful fight IN 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 fpight of manners must be told, Why really fifty-five is fomething old. Once you were young ; or one, whose life's so 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 modifh little trip, And pouted with the prettiest purple lip To fome new Charmer are the roses fled, Which blew, to damask all thy cheek with red; So So parting fummer bids her flow'ry prime 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, Her mien, her fhape, 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. |