Swifter almost than thought! and as I touch,
In honour of my love, the Sapphic lyre,
Methinks thy feather dances to the tune.
But, when I bid thee up the heavy hill,
Where Bus'ness sits, to travel, how thy pace
Wants quick'ning! this and that way dost thou writhe,
Convolv'd, uneasy with the tiresome march.
Hold up awhile—for sure is the reward
That waits on labour—Bear, oh! bear me thou
Thro' long succeeding covenants, from sense