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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.
In Fortune's varying colours drest:
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!
• 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.