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Whose rosy Colours ne'er return,
In Pity, O! ye Stars, incline
YHARM’D with Belinda's Voice and Wit,
I ask'd Apollo's Aid,
Th' Harmonious, Heav?nly Maid.
Unless, said He, She form the Song,
Unless She sing the Strain,
Must undescrib'd remain.
Hujus ero vivus, mortuus hujus ero.
HUS said Kingstone, When I die,
But chose it for his Urn, to lie in; ? Thirsty Living, Thirsty Dying.
On Mr. Welfted's presenting bis Ode on
the Duke of Marlborough's Apoplexy, to a Celebrated Toast.
F, thus, the Tuneful Bard his Voice can raise,
When England's Mars, expiring, damps his Lays, How! could he sing, and in what rapturous Rhimes Describe the Living VENUS of our Times ?
I feel the fatal Smart;
Your beauteous Sex, with various Grace,
My Passions, oft, have mov'd; And now a Shape, and then a Face,
As Fancy led, I lov’d.
So, does the Vagrant Bee explore
Each Sweet, that Nature yields;
And ranges all the Fields.
But! You have found the cruel Art
To cure my Roving Mind
Your Sex, in One, combin'd.