The Flies ftruck filent gaze with Wonder down:
The bufy Burghers reach their earthy Town;
Where lay the Burthens of a wint'ry Store,
And thence unwearied part in fearch of more.
Yet one grave Sage a Moment's space attends,
And the small City's loftiest Point ascends,

Wipes the falt Dew that trickles down his Face,
And thus harangues them with the gravest Grace.

Ye foolish Nurflings of the Summer Air, These gentle Tunes and whining Songs forbear; Your Trees and whifp'ring Breeze, your Grove

and Love,

Your Cupid's Quiver, and his Mother's Dove:
Let Bards to Bufinefs bend their vig'rous Wing,
And fing but feldom, if they love to fing:
Elfe, when the Flourets of the Seafon fail,

And this your Fenny Shade forfakes the Vale,

Tho' one would fave ye, not one Grain of Wheat Shou'd pay fuch Songsters idling at my Gate,

He ceas'd: The Flies, incorrigbly vain, Heard the May'r's Speech, and fell to fing again.

AN

IN

AN

ELE G Y,

To an Old BEAUTY.

N vain, poor Nymph, to please our youthful fight

You fleep in Cream and Frontlets all the Night,
Your Face with Patches foil, with Paint repair,
Dress with gay Gowns, and fhade with foreign
Hair.

If Truth in fpight of Manners must be told,
Why really Fifty-Five is fomething old.

Once

Once you were young; or one, whofe Life's

fo long

She might have born my Mother, tells me wrong.
And once (fince Envy's dead before you dye,)
The Women own, you play'd a sparkling Eye,
Taught the light Foot a modifh little Trip,
And pouted with the prettiest purple Lip-

To fome new Charmer are the Roses fled, Which blew, to damask all thy Cheek with red; Youth calls the Graces there to fix their Reign, And Airs by thousands fill their easy Train. So parting Summer bids her flow'ry Prime Attend the Sun to dress fome foreign Clime, While with'ring Seafons in Succeffion, here, Strip the gay Gardens, and deform the Year.

But thou (fince Nature bids) the World refign, 'Tis now thy Daughter's Daughter's time to shine.

With more Addrefs, (or fuch as pleases more)

She runs her Female Exercises o'er,

Unfurls or clofes, raps or turns the Fan,
And fmiles, or blushes at the Creature Man.
With quicker Life, as gilded Coaches pafs,
In fideling Courtefy the drops the Glass.
With better Strength, on Vifit-days, the bears
To mount her fifty Flights of ample Stairs.

Her Mein, her Shape, her Temper, Eyes and

Tongue

Are fure to conquer.

for the Rogue is young;

And all that's madly wild, or oddly gay,

We call it only pretty Fanny's way.

Let Time, that makes you homely, make you fage; The Sphere of Wisdom is the Sphere of Age. 'Tis true, when Beauty dawns with early Fire, And hears the flatt'ring Tongues of soft Defire,