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To Contemplation's sober eye

Such is the race of Man :

And they that creep and they that fly,

Shall end where they began.
Alike the Busy and the Gay
But flutter thro' life's little day,

In Fortune's varying colours drest:
Brush'd by the hand of rough Mischance,
Or chilld by age, their airy dance

They leave, in duft to rest.

Methinks I hear, in accents low,

The sportive kind reply:

Poor moralift! and what art thou?

A folitary fly!

Thy

• While infects from the threshold preach, 3c.

Mr. Green, in the Grotto. Dodsley's Miscellanies, [Lond. Edit.] Vol. V. p. 161.

Thy Joys no glittering female meets,

No hive haft thou of hoarded sweets,

No painted plumage to display : On hasty wings thy youth is flown ; Thy fun is fet, thy spring is gone

We frolick, while ’ris May.

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O DE

ON THE DEATH OF A

FAVOURITE CAT,

Drowned in a Tub of Gold Fishes:

!

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