TO A FLY,

Come away, come away, little fly!

Do n't disturb the sweet calm of love's nest:

If you do, I protest you shall die,

And your tomb be that beautiful breast.

Do n't tickle the girl in her sleep,

Do n't cause so much beauty to sigh;

If she frown, all the Graces will weep;

If she weep, half the Graces will die.

Pretty fly! do not tickle her so;

How delighted to teaze her you seem;

Titillation is dangerous, I know,

And may cause the dear creature to dream.

She may dream of some horrible brute,

Of some genii, or fairy-built spot;

Or perhaps the prohibited fruit,

Or perhaps of — I cannot tell what.

Now she‘ wakes! steal a kiss and begone;

Life is precious; away, little fly!

Should your rudeness provoke her to scorn,

You'll meet death from the glance of her eye.

Were I ask'd by fair Chloe to say

How I felt, as the flutt'rer I chid;

I should own, as I drove it away,

I wish'd to be there in it's stead.