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Seem'd to her ear his winning lips to lay,
'Fairest of mortals, thou distinguish'd care
Know then, unnumber'd spirits round thce fly.
The light militia of the lower sky:
These, though unseen, are ever on the wing,
Hang o'er the box, and hover round the ring.
Think what an equipage thou hast in air,
And view with scorn two pages and a chair,
As now your own, our beings were of old,
And once enclos'd in woman's beauteous mould;
Thence, by a soft transition, we repair
From earthly vehicles to those of air.
Think not, when woman's transient breath is fled,
That all her vanities at once are dead;
Succeeding vanities she still regards,
And, though she plays no more, o'erlooks the cards.
Her joy in gilded chariots, when alive,
And love of ombre, after death survive.
For when the fair in all their pride expire,
'Know further yet; whoever fair and chaste
Safe from the treach'rous friend, the daring spark,
'Some nymphs there are too conscious of their face,
Teach infant cheeks a bidden blush to know,
'Oft, when the world imagine women stray,