Rest, sainted spirit! from a life of woe,
And tho' no friendly hand on thee bestow
The stately marble, or emblazon'd name,
To tell a thoughtless world who sleeps below;
Yet o'er thy narrow bed a wreath shall blow,
Deriving vigour from the breath of fame.
TO A FLY,
ON THE BOSOM OF CHLOE, WHILE SLEEPING.
Come away, come away, little fly!
Don't disturb the sweet calm of love's nest:
If you do, I protest you shall die,
And your tomb be that beautiful breast.
Don't tickle the girl in her sleep,
Don't cause so much beauty to sigh;
If she frown, all the Graces will weep;
If she weep, half the Graces will die.
Pretty fly! do not tickle her so;
How delighted to teaze her you seem;
Titillation is dangerous, I know,
And may cause the dear creature to dream.
She may dream of some horrible brute,
Of some genii, or fairy-built spot;
Or perhaps the prohibited fruit,
Or perhaps of--I cannot tell what.
Now she 'wakes! steal a kiss and begone;
Life is precious; away, little fly!
Should your rudeness provoke her to scorn,
You'll meet death from the glance of her eye.
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