Alike the Bufy and the Gay But flutter thro' life's little day. In fortune's varying colours dreft : Brush'd by the hand of rough Mischance, Or chill'd by age, their airy dance They leave, in dust to rest. Methinks I hear in accents low The sportive kind reply: Poor moralift! and what art thou? A folitary fly! Thy Joys no glittering female meets, No hive haft thou of hoarded fweets, |