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When some shall say, Fair once my Silvia was, Thou wilt complain, False now's thy looking-glass, Which renders that quite tarnished which was green, And priceless now what peerless once had been. Upon thy form more wrinkles yet will fall, And, coming down, shall make no noise at all. Priceless, valueless.

'Tis not a thousand bullocks' thighs Can please those heav'nly deities, If the vower don't express In his offering cheerfulness.

'Tis not greatness they require To be offer'd up by fire; But 'tis sweetness that doth please Those Eternal Essences.

If meat the gods give, I the steam High-towering will devote to them, Whose easy natures like it well, If we the roast have, they the smell.