Swift without violence, without terror great.
A box where sweets compacted lie,
My musick shows ye have your closes,
And all must die.
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How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair;
How can ye chant, ye little birds,
And I sae weary fu' o' care!
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Fair winding up to where the Muses haunt
In Twit'nham bowers, and for their Pope implore.