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Thy Joys no glittering female meets, No hive haft thou of hoarded sweets,
No painted plumage to display: On hafty wings thy youth is flown; Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone
We frolick, while 'tis May.
ON THE DEATH OF A
Drowned in a Tub of Gold Fishes.
WAS on a lofty vase's fide,
Where China's gayeft art had dy'd The azure flowers, that blow; Demurest of the tabby kind, The pensive Selima reclin'd,
Gazed on the lake below,