Poor little, pretty, fluttering thing,
Must we no longer live together?
And dost thou prune thy trembling wing
To take thy flight the Lord knows whither?
Thy humorous vein, thy pleasing folly,
Lie all neglected, all forgot;
And pensive, wavering, melancholy,
Thou dread’st and hopest thou know’st not what.
To Celia, with a Snuff-box, having a Looking-Glass in the Lid.
Let others Venus and the Graces place,