As dust-born flies, which 'bout the candle play,
30Glide through its arch, encircle, fan, survey,
Wink at the presence of day's beamy blaze,
Purr on the glass, or on herb-pillows laze,
Just so my downy muse in distichs dare
Feet the perfection of a silkless fair,
Pumex each part so trimly that her foe
Swears her cheeks roses and her bosom snow;
Nay, has strew'd flowers of desertless praise
T'adorn the tomb of good sir Worthy Crayse.