The Presumptuous Fly.

Come away, come away, little fly! Don't disturb the sweet calm of lore's nest; If you do, I protest you shall die, And your tomb be that beautiful breast. Don't tickle the girl in her sleep, Don't cause so much beauty to sigh; If she frown, half the graces will weep, If she weep, all the graces will die. Come away, little fly, &c. Now she wakes! steal a kiss and be gone; Life is precious: away, little fly! Should your rudeness provoke her to scorn, You'll meet death from the glance of her eye. Were I ask'd by fair Chloe to say How I felt, as the flutterer I chid; I should own, as I drove it away, I wish'd to be there in its stead! Come away, little fly, &c.