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48  When the joy-inspiring draught Frees my soul from anxious thought, Graver thoughts I fling away, Sporting with the young and gay.

When I glow with generous wine, Life's real blessings all are mine, Joys beyond the reach of fate— Death is sure in every state.

Cupid, once, in luckless hour, Saw and pluck'd his favourite flower, A blooming rose—whose leaves among A bee that slept his finger stung. Loud he scream'd with sudden pain, Stamp'd and sobb'd—then scream'd again. He runs—he flies through mead and grove, To seek the beauteous Queen of Love. "Ah me! mamma, I'm kill'd," he cries, "Thy child, thy own dear Cupid dies! For, as I play'd on yonder plain, A winged serpent —ah! what pain! A thing the ploughmen call a bee, With dart of poison wounded me." Fair Venus, smiling, thus replies: "Oh dry those pretty pearly eyes;