ELEGIES*

This object pleas’d mee well, but when I spyBy wing* of fancy poys’d with gravity ?

Thy thoughts to soar a higher pitch, why thenMy mind’s unpleas’d, but better pleas’d again:

I’ve peep’d into thy Hive, thy Book, and 1Finde Bees t’have less of art and industry ;

And sweetness too, and so must needs confess2 long to taste thy hony from the press.

Each page a comb, each word’s a bell from whenceMellifluous dew’s distill in eloquence.

Were I to lead thy troops, hither I’de styeOn every leaf co prove their Chymistry.

Here tyt’d and weary thoughts may sweetness sean,

And re-assume new life with Jtnaiban.

Thy observation’s quick, what thou hast writSpeaks thee Dame Natures chiefest favourite.

The thoughts of various Authors thou hast (hewn»

And prov’d them ftyc-blown fancies of their own;

Thou knowest each Bee, their flight, and tracts their stage,,And so hast wrote a second Pilgrimage.

One hony’d ’ore a Tyrants eye to feastDid run the Gantlope through a Hornets neast.

Wasp-like, who at thy Book exceptions takeMakes thee a Martyr for thy sweetness fake.

$o. A»gien

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