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Moves in its Orb, pleas'd with the Chimes,
The fooliſh Creature thinks he climbs:
Bit all in vain, turn Wood or Wire,
He never gets two Inches higher.
So fares it with theſe merry Blades,
That frisk it under Pindar's Shades,
In pleaſing Songs and lofty Odes,
They tread on Stars, and talk with Gods :
Still Dancing in an airy round,
Still pleas'd with their own Verſes found :
Brought back how faſt ſo e'er they go,
Always aſpiring, always low.

                  LONDON,
Printed for BERNARD LINTOTT at the Croſs-Keys, next Nande's
Coffee-Houſe in Fleet-ſtreet, 1706.

                  (Price 2 d.)