Fly Not Yet.
Fly not yet, ’tis just the hour,
When place—like a black midnight flower,
Which scorns the rude and vulgar light,
Begins to woo us sons of night,
And scamps who covet cash.
’Twas but to bless us sons of shade,
That place and pay were ever made.
’Tis then their rich attractions glowing,
From the public purse are flowing.