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SON G. In Excuse to a LADY, for stealing a Kiss from
ELINDA, fee from yonder Flow'rs
The Bee flies loaded to the Cell; Can you perceive what it devours?
Are they impair’d in Shew or Smell:
0, tho' I robb'd you of a Kifs,
Sweeter than their Ambrosial Dewa Why are you angry at my Bliss
Has it at all impoverish'd you?
Tis by this Cunning I contrive,
In spight of your unkind Reserve, To keep my famish'd Love alive,
Which you inhumanly would starte
1 Had been a Foil in one less Fair;
Upon a PATCH, on a LADY's Face.
In her it hides a wounding Grace,
And she in Mercy plac'd it there.
USINESS, thou Plague and Pleasure of my Life;
Thou charming Mistress, thou confounded Wife; How shall I praise or blame thee, as I ought, Thou’rt very good, and yet thou'rt good for naught! Thou haunt'st me still, and yet I prithee do, For tho' I hate thee for't, I love thee too. Thou choak'st my feeble Muse, and damp'ft her Wing, Yet but for Thee, she'd neither Soar nor Sing: Thou Enemy, thou Friend, to Joy, to Grief, Thou bring'ft me all, thou bring 'st oxe no Relief;
Thou bitter, sweet, thou pleasing, teazing Thing
To a PAINTER, after he had finish'd a Lady's
PAINTER, thou haft perform'd what Man can do,
Only DORIN DA's self more Charms can shew, Bold are thy Strokes, and delicate each Touch, But still the Beauties of her face are fuch, As cannot justly be describ'd, tho' all Confess 'tis like the bright ORIGINAL. In Her, and in thy Picture, we may view
The utmolt Nature, or that Art can do, Each is a Mafter-Piece, design'd fo well, That future Times may ftrive to parallel, But neither Art nor Nature's able to excel
Τ Η Ε
Τ Η Ε
Force of Musick:
F R A G M E N T.
After the Manner of SPENCER,
There, story'd on the Walls were to behold,
There stood that * Engine, fam'd in ancient Lays,
Nor wanted there the Firft; whose Skill renownd,
A distant Quarter of the Fabrick held