If you, too frequently provoke your God ,
That God, who, merciful , forgives you, still,
You must expect, at last, to feel his rod,
His rod, the fittest scourge of head-strong will .
But I, long vers'd, in women's winding ways,
Unmov'd , with patient phlegm , their follies see;
And, like men, tir'd with dirty, wint'ry days;
Wou'd wish 'twere spring , but know it cannot be.
No longer, then, in spite of nature , pine;
Those tiny eyes can spare no room for tears ;
Your wand'ring dove has snatch'd the first glad sign ,
And, with the peaceful olive-branch , appears.
F OR , shou'd your tuneful clack be stricken dumb ,
More wonders wou'd arise, than you have shown;
Not Celia , only statue , would become,
But all th' astonish'd town wou'd turn to stone ,
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