To A Fly, On The Bosom Of Chloe, While Sleeping.

Come away, come away, little fly!     Don't disturb the sweet calm of love'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, all the Graces will weep;     If she weep, half the Graces will die.     Pretty fly! do not tickle her so;     How delighted to teaze her you seem;     Titillation is dangerous, I know,     And may cause the dear creature to dream.     She may dream of some horrible brute,     Of some genii, or fairy-built spot;     Or perhaps the prohibited fruit,     Or perhaps of--I cannot tell what.     Now she 'wakes! steal a kiss and begone;     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 flutt'rer I chid;     I should own, as I drove it away,     I wish'd to be there in it's stead.