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Two Hours are paft, and D A MO N is equipt,
Penfive he ftalks, and meditates the Fight ;
Arm'd Cap-a-pee, in Drefs a killing Beau, y
Thrice view'd his Glafs, and then refolv'd to go, >
Fluflit full of Hope to overcome his Foe. ^
His early Pray'rs were all to Paphos fent,
That JOVE's Sea-daughter would give her Confent :
Cry'd, Send thy tittle Son unto my AH.
Then took his Hat, tript out, and no more faid.
What lofty Thoughts do fometimes pufh a Man
Beyond the Verge of his own native Span !
Keep low thy Thoughts,frail Clay^or boaft thy Pow'r \-\
Fate will be Fate: And fince there's nothing fure, >
Vex not thy felf too much,but catch th' aufpicious Hour.-*
The tow'ring Lark had thrice his Mattins fung,
And thrice were Bells for Divine Service rung.
In Plaids muff 'd up, Prudes throng the facred Dome,
And leave the fpacious Petticoat at Home :
While fofteft Dreams feal'd up fair CELIAC Eyes,
She dreams of DA MO N 9 and forgets to rife.
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