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 And that we'll do, as men who know, Some few sands spent, we hence must go, Both to be blended in the urn From whence there's never a return. Adulce, sweeten. Strut, swell.

Thousands each day pass by, which we, Once past and gone, no more shall see.

This axiom I have often heard, Kings ought to be more lov'd than fear'd.

Or look'd I back unto the times hence flown To praise those Muses and dislike our own— Or did I walk those Pæan-gardens through, To kick the flowers and scorn their odours too— I might, and justly, be reputed here One nicely mad or peevishly severe. But by Apollo! as I worship wit, Where I have cause to burn perfumes to it; So, I confess, 'tis somewhat to do well In our high art, although we can't excel