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Lo! where the rosy-bosom'd Hours,
Fair Venus' train, appear,
And wake the purple year!
The untaught harmony of Spring : While, whispering pleasure as they fly, Coo) Zephyrs through the clear blue sky
Their gather'd fragrance fling. Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch
A broader browner shade,
O'ercanopies the glade,
(At ease reclined in rustic state) How vain the ardour of the crowd, How low, how little are the proud,
How indigent the great!
Still is the toiling hand of Care;
The panting herds repose :
The busy murmur glows !
And float amid the liquid noon :
Quick-glancing to the sun.
Such is the race of Man :
Shall end where they began.
In Fortune's varying colours dress'd : Brush'd by the hand of rough Mischance, Or chill'd by Age, their airy dance
They leave, in dust to rest.
The sportive kind reply:
A solitary fly!
No painted plumage to display :
W. frolic while 'tis May.