Variety.

A poem by Thomas Moore

Ask what prevailing, pleasing power
Allures the sportive, wandering bee
To roam untired, from flower to flower,
He'll tell you, 'tis variety.

Look Nature round; her features trace,
Her seasons, all her changes see;
And own, upon Creation's face,
The greatest charm's variety.

For me, ye gracious powers above!
Still let me roam, unfixt and free;
In all things,--but the nymph I love
I'll change, and taste variety.

But, Patty, not a world of charms
Could e'er estrange my heart from thee;--
No, let me ever seek those arms.
There still I'll find variety.

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