But Venus, suffering not her favourite worm
For aye to sleepen in his filky tomb,
Instructs him to throw off his pristine form,
And the gay features of a fly affume;
When, lo! eftfoons from the surrounding gloom,
He vigorous breaks, forth issuing from the wound
His horny beak had made, and finding room,
On new-plum’d pinions flutters all around,
And buzzing speaks his joy in most expreffive found.
So may the God of Science and of Wit,
With pitying eye ken thee his darling son ;
Shake from thy fatty sides the slumberous fit,
In which, alas ! thou art fo woe begon!
Or with his pointed arrows goad thee on;
Till thou refeeleft life in all thy veins;
And, on the wings of Resolution,
Like thine own hero dight, fliest o'er the plains,
Chaunting his peerless praise in never-dying strains.