The Presumptuous Fly.

A poem by Thomas Gent

Come away, come away, little fly!
Don't disturb the sweet calm of lore's nest;
If you do, I protest you shall die,
And your tomb be that beautiful breast.
Don't tickle the girl in her sleep,
Don't cause so much beauty to sigh;
If she frown, half the graces will weep,
If she weep, all the graces will die.
Come away, little fly, &c.

Now she wakes! steal a kiss and be gone;
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 flutterer I chid;
I should own, as I drove it away,
I wish'd to be there in its stead!
Come away, little fly, &c.

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