From every blush that kindles in thy cheeks, Ten thousand little loves and graces spring To revel in the roses.

As if Misfortune made the throne her seat,/ And none could be unhappy but the great.

Is she not more than painting can express,/ Or youthful poets fancy when they love?

When our old Pleasures die, Some new One still is nigh; Oh! fair Variety!

Is this that haughty, gallant, gay Lothario?

Your bounty is beyond my speaking; But though my mouth be dumb, my heart shall thank you.

Death is the privilege of human nature,And life without it were not worth our taking.