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III. But Venus, suffering not her favourite worm For aye to sleepen in his filky tomb, Instructs him to throw off his pristine form, And the gay features of a fly assume; When, lo! eftfoons from the surrounding gloom, He vigorous breaks, forth issuing from the wound His horny beak had made, and finding room,

On new-plum'd pinions Autters all around, And buzzing speaks his joy in most expressive sound.

IV.
So may

the God of Science and of Wit,
With pitying eye ken thee his darling son;
Shake from thy fatty fides the slumberous fit,
In which, alas ! thou art fo woe begon!
Or with his pointed arrows goad thee on ;
Till thou refeelest life in all thy veins ;
And, on the wings of Resolution,

Like thine own hero dight, fieft o'er the plains,
Chaunting his peerless praise in never-dying strains.

CON

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