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.
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