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Amaz'd we read of Nature's early Throes
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How the fair Heav'ns and pond'rous Earth
arose:
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How blooming Trees unplanted first began;
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And Beasts submissive to their Tyrant, Man:
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To Man, invested with despotic Sway,
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While his mute Brethren tremble and obey;
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Till Heav'n beheld him insolently vain,
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And checked the Limits of his haughty Reign.
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Then from their Lord, the rude Deserters fly,
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And, grinning back, his fruitless Rage defy;
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Pards, Tygers, Wolves, to gloomy Shades retire,
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And Mountain-Goats in purer Gales respire.
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To humble Valleys, where soft Flowers blow,
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And fatt'ning Streams in crystal Mazes flow,
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Full of new Life, the untam'd Coursers run,
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And roll, and wanton, in the chearful Sun;
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Round their gay Hearts the dancing Spirits rise,
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And Rouse the Lightnings in their rolling Eyes:
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To cragged Rocks destructive Serpents glide,
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Whose mossy Crannies hide their speckled Pride;
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And monstrous Whales on foamy Billows ride.
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Then joyful Birds ascend their native Sky:
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But where! ah! where, shall helpless Woman fly?
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Here smiling Nature brought her choicest Stores,
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And roseat Beauty on her Fav'rite pours:
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Pleas'd with her Labour, the officious Dame
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With-held no Grace would deck the rising Frame.
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Then view'd her Work, and view'd, and
smil'd again,
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And kindly whisper'd, Daughter, live, and reign.
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But now the Matron mounrs her latest Care,
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And sees the Sorrows of her darling Fair;
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Beholds a Wretch, whom she
design'd a Queen,
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And weeps that e'er she form'd the weak
Machine,
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In vain she boasts her Lip of scarlet Dyes,
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Cheeks like the Morning, and far-beaming Eyes;
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Her Neck refulgent--fair and feeble Arms,
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A Set of useless and neglected Charms.
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She suffers Hardship with afflictive Moans:
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Small Tasks of Labour suit her slender Bones.
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Beneath a Load her weary Shoulders yield,
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Nor can her Fingers grasp teh sounding Shield;
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She sees and trembles as approaching Harms,
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And Fear and Grief destroy her fading Charms.
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Then her pale Lips no pearly Teeth disclose,
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And Time's rude Sickle cuts the yielding Rose.
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Thus wretched Woman's short-liv'd Merit
dies;
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In vain to Wisdom's sacred Help she flies;
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Or sparkling Wit but lends a feeble Aid:
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'Tis all Delirium from a wrinkled Maid.
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A tattling Dame, no matter where, or who;
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Me it concerns not--and it need not you;
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Once told this Story to the listening Muse,
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Which we, as now it serves our Turn, shall use.
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When our Grandsire1
nam'd the feather'd Kind,
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Pond'ring their Natures in his careful Mind,
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'Twas then, if on our Author we rely,
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He view'd his Consort with an envious Eye;
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Greedy of Pow'r, he hugg'd the
tott'ring Throne;
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And, better to secure his doubtful Rule,
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Roll'd his wise Eye-balls, and pronounc'd
her Fool.
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The regal Blood to distant Ages runs:
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Sires, Brothers, Husbands, and commanding Sons,
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The Sceptre claim; and ev'ry Cottage brings
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A long Succession of Domestic Kings.
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