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And further he says, men no longer shall boast
WHEN home I return'd from the dancing last night, And elate by your praises attempted to write,
I familiarly call'd on Apollo for aid,
And told him how many fine things you had said.
Your wit, and not mine, by your writings you shew:
I'LL not believe that Phoebus did not smile, Unhappily for you I know his style;
To strains like yours of old his harp he strung,
Did beauteous Daphne's scorn of proffer'd love
Convinc'd from thence, ye were as good as fair.
Who sent Compliments to a
UPON THE TEN OF HEARTS.
YOUR Compliments, dear Lady, pray forbear, Old English services are more sincere ;
You send Ten Hearts, the tithe is only mine, Give me but One, and burn the other Nine.
WHY should the charming Galatea shun
We're slaves by choice, nor wish to quit our chains ;
And spread a powerful empire o'er the main.
Shall she to barbarous coasts from hence remove,